


On Corruption and Humanity: A War Hero's Return Home

by Feathersmeanfreedom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang 2020, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Drug Withdrawal, Flashbacks, Gen, Howling Commandos Memorial, M/M, Minor Violence, Protective Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feathersmeanfreedom/pseuds/Feathersmeanfreedom
Summary: After the Hellicarriers crashed into the Potomac, the world is in chaos. The Winter Soldier goes off on his own to discover who he used to be, and find out if he can be Bucky Barnes again.When he finds a kid—this time named Lucas—losing a fight in a Brooklyn alley, it's familiar enough that he has to step in. He earns the trust of Lucas' landlady, who allows him to fill a vacancy in the small building. He must learn how to balance who he was, with who he is, and the person he wants to be. But Hydra is not through with him, yet.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Howling Commandos, James "Bucky" Barnes & Hydra Agents, James "Bucky" Barnes & Original Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes & Peggy Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes & Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 19
Kudos: 73
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> It has been so much fun work with leathermouthed on this fic. Go follow her on twitter at https://twitter.com/leathermouthed?s=21. 
> 
> It was an honor to work with an artist that's so talented, and I'm so happy with how this project turned out!
> 
> I also wanted to include a note about any trigger warnings people need. The majority of the violence in this fic is written in a fade-to-black style, and nothing is heavily described. There are some references to torture, but nothing in detail. I mostly focused on the emotions. Without giving too much away, Bucky also experiences drug withdraws, curses a lot, goes to a couple of group therapy meetings, and gets injured.

The disassembled parts of a rifle lie on the table in front of The Soldier. Two heavily armed handlers look between themselves uneasily.

The left, a strong man with dark features; the right, a taller man with white hair. They laugh when they first meet him. A part of him knows all of his handlers are disappointed he is not more intimidating. 

The Soldier does not understand. The target is always afraid.

These men are not targets. They are his handlers. They should not be afraid. The Soldier lets his mouth twist upwards at the corner. It is what people do when they are content, so surely it will put his handlers at ease.

The white-haired handler on the right is not good at regulating his outward expression of emotion. His eyes widen. Foolish to let him see such an evident display of fear.

The other’s hands drift towards the gun at his hip. They are equipped with thick, black body armor that aims to prevent injury in case the Soldier gets volatile. It is made of a synthetic, plaster style knit, so it is meant to resist sharp objects and bullets. If they are wearing this gear, they prepared for the Soldier to be volatile. Given the way their hearts beat faster, they expect it.

The white-haired handler visibly gathers his courage and draws his gun. There will be a penalty if he fires it. He is right handed and holds the gun easily. He is experienced. “What are you doing?” He speaks in Russian.

Questions are not meant to be answered. He does not change his expression, as that will be considered an answer.

His dark-featured partner lets out his breath and appears to relax. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t know what it’s doing.”

“You’re right.” The white haired handler must take that as a provocation, for he comes around the table and nudges the Soldier’s side with the barrel of his gun. Probability he will shoot: 30%, decreased by threat of severe repercussions if the Soldier is damaged. “Hell, we could do anything to it, couldn’t we? And it wouldn’t even move.”

The other handler is more cautious and clearly more intelligent. “Michail, we have a task to complete.”

Michail puts the gun to the Soldier’s temple and turns off the safety.

A shot would be lethal on any normal person, but he has a high probability of surviving. The Soldier does not acknowledge the gun. He cannot say with certainty, but a gunshot wound is among the lesser pain he has experienced.

Michail laughs, then steps back. “Later, maybe.” He joins his partner at the other side of the table, raising his arm to gesture at the disassembled rifle. “What is this?” 

The Soldier does not respond. Perhaps this question is meant to be answered, but he remains silent. Let them punish him and ruin his conditioning. That will go over well.

Michail and the other handler exchange a look of amusement. There is a long pause, but the Soldier is used to silence.

“Do you know what this is?” The other handler repeats.

Again, the Soldier does not respond, and he has to wonder if they truly mean to trick him. Even so, it is better to let them underestimate him. Let them think he is unaware.

The handlers are amused, and Michail is the first to break into laughter. “Still think I’m wrong, Boris? It’s stupid.”

Boris joins his laughing. “To forget this? That’s pretty bad.”

“Maybe the shocks finally did it in, after all these years.” Boris nudges at the rifle, snickering. “What did it finally get with this thing?”

“Around 200 confirmed kills.” Michail shoots a grin at Boris. “Still counting.”

The Soldier stays silent.

Listening.

“If it remembers how to shoot it.” Boris picks up the scope of the rifle and sets it down again. It is a nervous tick. Despite their ongoing laughter, it seems the joke is getting old. Fear creeps back into his voice. “What if it doesn’t know how to shoot it?”

Michail grins again. It is an unpleasant sight. “Then we can shoot it.”

The Soldier is kept unaware. He completes missions efficiently. He is valuable to his handlers. He has the skills to blend into any group of people. He is being mocked.

He knows what a rifle is. He knows how to shoot one. They are surrounded by 4 concrete walls and metal equipment, but the Soldier remembers pine trees and snow.

He remembers the feeling of annoyance at the right handed grip. And although there is no fire, the Soldier smells smoke. He hears laughter that is different than the scornful sounds the handlers are making. He is warm in a way he does not remember ever experiencing. But even he knows these glimpses do not say much.

“Assemble the weapon,” Boris orders—at last—but it is half-hearted at best. He has picked up Michail’s thirst for blood. He does not seem to care what he does. Either way it works out for him.

The Soldier puts the rifle together with practiced ease, and smiles again at Boris and Michail. Out of stupidity or ignorance, they are significantly less afraid than they should be.

* * *

There are girls.

They are threatened with their death if they fail. The 5 remaining girls do not want to fail. From the way they set their jaws when they are reminded of their slim numbers, they are familiar with the consequences. The Soldier does not want to fail either.

He is to fight and evaluate each of them. Their task is to last a minute. Rather than being disheartened by this fact, they seem hardened to it. This is not an unfamiliar command to the girls, even if it is for The Soldier.

The first: a small, dark skinned girl fights cleverly.

Before she moves, he knows this. It is true enough. She punches and kicks in the soft areas of the human body, and punctuates them with jabs at his joints.

She is stronger than he thought she would be, and it costs him a direct jab to his throat. She uses her size as an advantage and floats around him like the wind in the never ending snowstorms. She lasts 46 seconds, and glares when he has her pinned.

The girls’ handler lets out a soft whistle, and The Soldier releases her. The fight is over.

The second: light haired, tall, but not lanky.

This one is vicious. He can admire it, even as she fights like a hale storm. She immediately undertakes offensive maneuver after offensive trick, but he knows how to fight like this. He doges more than blocks, and she gets frustrated quickly.

She telegraphs a sweeping kick that leaves her vulnerable. When the Soldier has an elbow to her throat 33 seconds in, she is still kicking and fuming.

The third: her eyes are dark, too but with no possibility of warmth.

She fights with a ferocity that is familiar to him. It matches his own. Her movements are just as smooth and just as graceful as his; they are only interrupted with the crushing fear of failing.

He is not invulnerable to it, either, but he has much more experience overcoming it. There are the traces of panic in her eyes as he pins her in 38 seconds.

The fourth: a girl with dark eyes and black hair. For a second it flashes. She is younger. And laughing before her instructor slaps her across the face for it.

Then, she is someone else entirely, but the laughs are the same; this new girl is laughing because he is dancing with her standing on his feet. She is somehow connected to him. There is music.

He is getting distracted.

He does not remember fighting this one, but it takes 49 seconds.

The fifth: red haired with analyzing eyes. This one has seen him fight already, but he has already fought them all. He has even—getting distracted.

The redhead grins as she ducks under his first blow, like she knows what he is thinking. How can she when even he has—is getting kicked in the face.

The blow disorients him for a moment too long, but that is all she needs. She swings up to his shoulders and wraps her legs around his throat. She is strong, and even with his enhancements, a position like this makes him vulnerable.

He rolls to the ground and traps her under him, jolting her spine. It weakens her hold on him for a second—all he needs, too.

He pins her in 57 seconds.

As with the others, he waits for the soft whistle of the leader of the girls’ handlers. Neither he nor the girl moves until she gives them leave to. An imposing woman, with stern black hair in a severe bun.

Her voice has always been calm with the certainty that she is rarely disappointed; and those who dare do it only once.

The whistle does not come.

The timer keeps ticking.

The girl does not telegraph her movements until the instant she flips them. Before he knows it, she has him pinned, locking him firmly in place to the floor. It is the first time she has ever beaten him.

The split second before he does the same is interrupted by the telltale sound of the whistle. She taps one finger from where it rests around his neck; an apology.

She rises smoothly, and her confidence isn’t forced this time. She joins the others. They look at her with begrudging respect. They are competitors, but they are also sisters in all but blood.

The Soldier stands at attention as the ever-changing team of handlers review the girls’ performances. They are different. Their team was different the last time…

The girls were different too last time. They were younger. They were the same age as the girl he saw, the one with the carefree laughter that was allowed to ring joyously throughout their home. Encouraged, even. It was joined by an equally happy one—deeper. Closer.

His.

But there has never been a time when he has been allowed to laugh.

His voice is not meant for that, if it is to be heard at all. He does not even know if his voice is capable of making that sound. Whoever the girl is, her laughter does not belong in a place like this, where the only girls here have never been allowed laughter, either. 

“We predicted you would fail this task.” The woman stands in front of the girls, who manage to hide their expressions. “You met our expectation when you were supposed to surpass them.

She glides to stand in front of the red haired girl. “Even you. You have been taught to wait for orders. I will not repeat the lesson. Do you understand?”

The redhead nods almost imperceptibly. But it satisfies the woman, so she moves along to the others. She documents where each girl went wrong. The team of handlers debate their punishments while the girls stand. Still, as always. Waiting.

His own handlers take him from the room—probably for his own lecture on where he failed today. It is regrettable he has to leave before he learns what will happen to them. Even if he does not remember...he would have liked to know.

And if there is a girl somewhere who could keep her joy...he hopes she laughs as hard and as long and as much as she can.

* * *

The Soldier is not given explanations for his missions. They keep things from him that would distract from his mission. All that matters is the completion of his mission. There are others with different missions who handle what happens after. Who decides what missions he completes.

He knows these as facts. But he is not supposed to care.

But—

He is not supposed to care.

The Soldier is tasked with setting off bombs that will take out a visiting politician and the noncombatants around him. It is known that the target is a man of military experience, and is believed to be paranoid.

But despite how the mission parameters change every time, there is one constant: he is a ghost. He has never met another one, but they must be able to shift forms, because this is what he does.

After a day of surveillance, he walks into the building with his nutrient shake in a paper coffee cup and a general weariness for the world. He has a small bag, seemingly for his break later on in his shift. He is dressed in similar clothing to the nurses, a bright blue set of scrubs, long white coat, and a pair of purple synthetic gloves. All together, it does a good job.

Ye, it is uncomfortable to be in such clothes. In his experience, nurses and doctors and scientists mean pain.

The stolen key card and spare lanyard decorated with cartoon characters give him enough of an appearance of personality to avoid suspicion. It is a nice touch, and pays off when another nurse smiles a little at the sight of it. 

She does not even consider that he is a deadly assassin hiding a metal arm. And who would, when he shyly approaches the desk nurse. Of course, his handlers had not given him a layout of the building in the mission brief, and there is only so much discernible from the outside.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” he says, easily. His accent is indiscernible. He taps his fingers against his cup out of apparent nerves. “But I’m a new transfer, and I can’t seem to find my way around, yet. Where’s the South Ward?”

The desk nurse, a man with dark hair and glasses, laughs good naturally. It is nice, one that is unapologetic. “Oh, I know, it confused me for months. But I’m sure a man like yourself will be finding your way in no time.”

Instinctively, he smiles as the other man looks him up and down deliberately. He raises his eyebrows over his cup. “I don’t know, I might need help finding a way home, later.”

“I might just be your guy.”

He lets the moment draw out, then makes a show of regret. “But really, I shouldn’t be late today.”

“You’ll hit the South Ward if you follow that hallway there,” the man says, understanding. “Good luck,” he says. 

Saluting him with his coffee cup, he makes his way to the ward. It tastes better in this cup than the horrible bags he is usually given. But on this mission, his handlers value secrecy over micromanaging. So long as he remains on schedule, he has no oversight.

It is a rarity. His handlers dropped him off at the edges of the city, where he found his way to the hospital and set up a makeshift base across the street. There, he observed the staff so that he could better infiltrate it and ensure the politician was where he needed to be. He has stayed on task—but there is a thrill in carrying the nutrient shake in a cup and drinking it as he pleases. The previous night, he even allowed himself 4 full sleep cycles.

He plants the explosives with ease, hiding them in the vents. He can remotely deploy them. The Soldier has already done the calculations so that structural collapse is inevitable. The entire wing will collapse, as per the mission directive. No one questions his movements, and he hides inside supply closets if it is a close call.

Finally, he finishes. He prepares to leave.

As far as he can tell, the hospital is nice, if under supplied. But he is almost positive most hospitals are. It is certainly brightly decorated, with simple murals of bees, flowers, and plenty of bright colors. As he gets closer to the South Ward, he notices that it is because the occupants are children, so the murals are an attempt to calm them.

This is a children’s hospital.

He does not realize he has stopped until suddenly, a woman’s hand touches his arm. He jolts aware and barely restrains himself from striking her. She does not notice. “Please, what can I do for him?”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” He replies in the same language.

She gestures inside the hospital room, where a small, sickly boy lies in the bed, “He has a horrible fever. We can’t seem to get him comfortable, he keeps shifting and trying to take out the IV.”

“Is he dreaming?” He asks. He does not know why—the only medical knowledge he has is from torturing.

“Yes!” The woman looks relieved he might have a solution. 

He would like to know what his solution is, as well. He leans into the room to get a better look at the boy. Sure enough, he is fidgeting. He is small-framed with black hair. But for a second...it’s a boy with blond hair. “Try telling him stories. It should let him imagine those in his dreams instead of whatever he’s seeing.”

She takes his right hand in both of hers. “Thank you,” she says earnestly.

“Of course, ma’am.” 

She goes back inside to her son, but the Soldier stays in the hallway. To avoid suspicion, he picks up a random clipboard outside the room and appears to be examine it. But inside, his mind is reeling.

His mind is not supposed to be reeling. He has completed the mission prep. All he has to do is lead the politician inside the ward, then ignite the explosives.

And the entire wing will collapse, killing all those inside. There are children inside.

The Soldier hesitates. He has never hesitated before. Hesitation is deadly.

Nevertheless, he hesitates.

He makes his way back to the front desk, and is pleased to find the same nurse on duty. The man’s face brightens considerably when he sees him. The Soldier forces himself to do the same, so he lets his face soften and his mouth curl into a smile.

“Did you find your way alright?”

“Just as you said,” the Soldier relaxes his stance so he is leaning on the desk. “Can you help me out again?”

The man’s eyes crinkle at the corner. He is amused. “What do you need?”

“How many patients are in the Southern children’s ward?”

The man leans blinks in surprise. “Oh, well, those are our long term care patients. I would say around 30 at any given time?”

The Soldier makes a show out of considering saying more, then letting the subject drop. “It’s probably nothing. I’m probably just paranoid.”

“No, what is it?” The man leans forward. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Well,” he shakes his head, as if he's uncertain. “I just smelled gas while I was in there. Does it normally do that? I don’t know, maybe I’m just not used to it yet.”

He knows the moment it sinks in, because the man’s attractive eyes widen. “No, that’s serious. Where?”

“It was strongest towards the end of the wing, only when I went to the other floors, it was still there. Maybe the gas line is connected to the entire side of the building?” 

It is, he has the utility lines of the building memorized.

The Soldier can tell when the man pushes down his rising panic in favor of making a plan. He is stronger than many of the operatives he has worked with. “We have to move the kids from the wing,” he says calmly. “I’ll make some calls after to check it out.”

They won’t need one. But...he can not be known to move the children. He is already going to get into trouble for not preventing something like this, let alone causing it.

He shuffles his feet. “Listen, I want to help, but I can’t get fired on my first day.”

The man nods, but clearly loses respect for him. He does not like it, but the Soldier can deal with a loss of respect. The man looks down for a moment, steeling himself, before standing up. “I understand, I’ll take care of it.”

The Soldier nods, and before he knows it, he’s reaching out to the other man. He places his right hand on his arm. “You’re very brave, you know that?’

The man’s shy smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. “You were right to bring this to me. I’ll see you around?”

For a moment, the Soldier indulged himself in the possibility of doing just that. He would work here, take care of patients, make sure kids could go home healthy. It is a nice life for someone. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

The Soldier slips out a side door, just another tired nurse at the end of his shift, and returns to his makeshift base. He changes into a suit and thin gloves, does his hair, and puts brown contacts in his eyes. To the world, he appears as a perfectly unnoticeable security guard.

He slips back to the hospital as the other security guards are arriving. The politician had sent five of them ahead of time, and the Soldier claims to have been sent even before then. When delivered with an eye roll, the guards do not question it.

As they wait for his arrival, he listens to his guards grumble about how the politician never even fought in the war—just stayed all high ranked and protected while the rest of them did the bleeding and got a job in politics for it. He catches one wondering why they are even here. After all, who would attack a hospital?

The Soldier nods along in agreement.

Despite their complaints, they come to attention as the politician emerges from a black car. Following him is a team of reporters and public relations officials. The politician's predatory look is so familiar, the Soldier almost mistakes him for a handler when he looks over all of them approvingly. He enters the hospital and they flank him. The Soldier manages to get a position at his left. He enters, and is apparently disappointed by the lack of fanfare he receives.

“Why is everyone in an uproar?”

“They think there’s a gas leak in the children’s wing,” the Soldier leans in to whisper. “They’re moving them out.”

“Ah, that explains it,” he says. He looks around and evidently decides to wait for someone to attend to him in the meantime.

The guard at the politician’s right hears him, as intended. “Are they alright?”

“They’re doing their best,” the Soldier says suggestively. “But they’re understaffed as it is.”

One of the other guards speaks up. “They could probably use our help.”

To no one’s surprise, the politician is unconvinced. That is, until a photographer leans in to whisper, “It would be a much better article if you were seen helping.”

In the end, that is what surges him into action. Suddenly, it is the only option. “Of course they need our help!”

So the team of guards, media people, the politician, and the Soldier make their way to the South Wing. A dozen nurses transporting the patients out, and the politician makes sure to be seen assisting, berating his team for not helping as well.

They are only helping a short while when it is finished.

“Should we do a final sweep?” the Soldier asks. "To make sure no one was missed?"

“That’s exactly what I was going to suggest!” The politician says. He points to the Soldier. “You, with me. The rest of you, why don’t you make yourselves useful and help the patients settle in?”

The nurses are already doing just that quite competently, so the others make themselves scarce. Perfect.

“Can you believe them?” The politician asks, incredulous.

They lock the doors behind them and do their final sweep. The Soldier makes sure to hurry along any who seem to be taking their time. When they’re finished, the politician insists on doing it again. Just to be sure. The Soldier can not help but agree to it.

“Well, we’ve done all we can do here.” He turns to face the Soldier, only to find him gone.

The Soldier watches from a distance as the South Wing of the hospital explodes, causing structural damage along the entire cleared wing. Other than the explosives he laid, it does look like a gas explosion.

No other parts of the building are affected. The Soldier waits for extraction, and tries not to dread the coming punishment.

* * *

Guards rant. Handlers talk. Technicians grumble. Given the frequency, it is easy to forget that the Soldier has ears.

He uses this.

The mission briefings are just that—brief. They leave critical information out. Whether it is intentional or not, the lack of information is likely to get someone killed.

So he listens. And while not so brief, he learns a hell of a lot more.

His target is an innovative engineer who had gone to SHIELD, an organization that opposes Hydra. She had worked with the Soldier before, and many of the guards think he will recognize her. Some even theorize he will defect with her. It was apparently a shame to lose her services, because she developed some of their most valuable weapons, including his arm upgrades.

The mission briefing told him she was “intellectually valuable, but without combat experience: eliminate.” The mission briefing is always brief.

But the Soldier is loyal to Hydra. They value him. His services are needed.

The Soldier will not defect.

He is supervised on this mission. It is not hard to guess why. They also spend most of their time playing poker, so it is unlikely they pose a significant threat—if he were to defect.

They are in a hotel room 1200 yards from the target’s home with clear visuals. After conducting through surveillance on her activities, he lines up a shot. Through the scope, he finds that he does recognize her.

She was the engineer who encouraged the guards into beating him because her superiors did not give her the opportunity to test his strength. She encouraged him to lash out so she could observe her inventions. She was fascinated by his reactions to the punishment. She cooed over him as she implanted drug capsules into his arm, prodded him while they released paralyzing chemicals into his spine. Smiled as she implanted the pain inducing chemical capsules

He makes a clean shot through her window, landing the bullet between her eyes. It was certainly more mercy than she ever gave him.

The handlers ask him questions after the mission report. They ask him what she looked like, and he describes her: black hair, tall frame, and a low level threat. They ask him more questions, attempting to make him admit he recognized her, or that he was tempted to run. 

They are not satisfied with his answers, because they start torturing him.

They do not trust him.

A part of the Soldier realizes that while he is loyal to Hydra, they do not feel the same. Loyalty is mutual.

How does he know this?

There were fires. Not the ones they apply to his skin, but others. 

These made him warm from the inside. 

There were men huddled around the fire, and they were all making fun of their commander, a blond man with a heart the size of his will to fight: fucking huge. All of them followed this man. His sense of justice was unwavering, and they all knew that this man would fight for them, too. 

Hell, he did every chance he got to, and always has.

That was loyalty: fighting for each other. Trusting each other.

This—his unquestioning allegiance to those who did not return it and punished him for their doubts—was a mockery.


	2. Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last mission and the new mission

He has never trained with a shield before. It is not part of his skill set. By definition it is a strange offensive weapon. It is meant to _shield_ someone.

Apparently, his target never got the message. The target uses it to block the Soldier’s bullets and punches, yes, but then he throws it as an offensive weapon.

The Soldier has never trained with a shield before, yet knows how to fight it. He quickly jabs the man in the face to distract him, then grabs the shield and rotates it, forcing him to release it. He attacks with two quick punches that push the man back several feet. 

He cannot let the man have it. He is too effective. He throws it just out of the man’s reach, and it jams into the side of a van. At least now, he knows why the blonde man likes it.

He has to get the fight up close, so as he charges at him, the Soldier draws a knife. The target is only slightly less effective in hand to hand combat, and matches him blow for blow.

He must be enhanced, like the Soldier is. 

No, the Soldier is enhanced like this man is. The Soldier came after. But how does he know this? He is getting distracted.

He drops his guard and the man takes advantage of it. The man kicks him into a car. Oh yes, he is definitely enhanced. The Soldier believes this would have been helpful information to put in the mission briefing.

They continue their fight, and the Soldier presses his advantage. A kick sends him to the ground, and the target gets his shield. It will be annoying to disarm him again. Knife against shield should not be as hard of a fight as it is. The man is clever, and at one point throws him over his shoulder. His mask falls off.

The Soldier does not understand the man’s stricken face. Despite their fight, the man is not injured. He should not be looking so horrified. “Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He raises his gun.

The gunman from the bridge—who apparently also has wings—sends him sprawling. It gives him the chance to process. 

The name is familiar. This man has said it before.

He has to focus. He takes aim once more, only for the red headed woman to sim a small missile at him. It explodes, and the Soldier uses it as cover for escaping. The three of them together have a chance of defeating him. He will not risk capture.

He does not remember making it to the extraction point. He does not remember getting back to the bank vault. He wishes he did. It would be a lot more pleasant than the other things he remembers.

The man has said that name before—exactly like that. There was a time when he said it in that same shocked, confused, and horrified tone. He was the one on a table.

There was a round-faced man with glasses. He was eager. The fire in his veins made him happy. Zola. He was proud of him.But no—that is not pride. Zola was proud of himself and his experiments with him. He was not proud of him.

Pride was…

He was proud of someone—Steve. He was proud of Steve. There were drawings. Yes, he was proud of Steve for drawing his sisters—the three brown haired girls laughing in their tiny apartment. Steve gave it to him before he had to leave.

For something.

But he had been proud of Steve and his skills and his kindness. Not how Zola was proud of him. Zola had looked at the Soldier with glee in his eyes as he ran test after painful test on him.

Zola had given him his first arm, and told him he was the Fist of Hydra. That is not right. He had lost his arm...he fell off a train. Steve had screamed that name then, too. And he had woken up to Russian soldiers and a new arm.

The Soldier lashes out at the technician working on his arm. He slams into the wall, and the guards turn their guns on him. He does not care.

They call Pierce in, his most recent handler. There have been others, who just the same, would never fight for him. He does not care, even when Pierce orders a mission report.

He does not care. Pierce can come join him in hell.

Pierce's slap across the face at least brings him back to the present. Pierce will know the answer. He can solve this for him. “The man on the bridge. Who was he?”

He will regret asking: he already knows.

* * *

The Soldier is rarely wiped mid-mission. It makes him lose valuable information he has gathered on his target. 

Like how his target is not only skilled enough to choke him into unconsciousness for a few seconds, but is stubborn enough to switch the hellicarriers’ control chips with two bullet wounds and a graze.

He used to know the target was this stubborn. Stubborn enough to save the one who is trying to kill him. What kind of person does that?

“Bucky...” There is that damned name again. Why does he keep saying it? That is not right. His target has never said that name before. “You’ve known me your whole life.”

The Soldier swings, and he just takes it. The stubborn asshole.

“Your name is James Buchannan Barnes.” 

There is another voice saying it. A woman’s. She is disappointed he wants to go by something else. Bucky. It overlaps with another one and another one and another one. So many people, saying that name.

“Shut up!”

He swings again, and even with the shield, the target is knocked down. He stands up, but does not attack. Why is he not attacking?

“I’m not going to fight you.” He drops his shield, which falls into the river far below. Not a strategic move. “You’re my friend.”

For once, every part of him is in agreement and screams that this is wrong. Targets giving up means it is a trap or are defeated. Steve giving up is unheard of. Steve has never given up in his fucking life.

He tackles Steve easily. “You’re my mission.”

He lands punch after punch with his metal arm, and even then, the wrongness does not go away. It gets stronger. This is wrong.

“Then finish it.” Steve sounds ready to let him do just that. He is tired. “‘Cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line.”

It’s a familiar saying. He said first. After a funeral. A woman’s.

The name comes to him: Sarah.

The wrongness is replaced by horror. This is _Steve._

Who has the best laugh and the warmest smile. They have a bond.

Who he promised someone he would protect. Sarah. She was weaker than he had ever seen her, but still tried to stay strong for them. She asked him to look after Steve, even though she knew he would. He said that same fucking line to Steve after her funeral.

The floor of the helicarrier gives out, and Steve falls. He jumps after him before he has thought it through, and the two of them hit the water seconds apart.

He carries Steve ashore.

He does not know much about Sarah Rogers, but she would kill him if she saw that he’s walking away. He hopes she'll understand that Steve will be fine. He has allies that will protect him. But he—he has to leave. He...he doesn’t want to go back.

If he stays, he will. His handlers will be after him, then his old handlers, then whoever is lucky enough to have the clearance level to know about him. They will use him to enact the helicarriers' mission, all by himself. He will never see a smile like Steve’s if he goes back.

Even though he has his reasons, for once, he’s glad that whatever higher power exists has given up on him. Maybe he can explain it all to Sarah, one day.

* * *

A week spent hiding in alleys and sleeping under bridges. The most obvious parts of his gear are wrapped up in a trash bag.

No one looks twice at a dirty, ill-dressed person with a trash bag of gear. Not even the Hydra agents who look for him. They pass him over one night as he’s sleeping next to a dumpster. 

No doubt, they believe their precious assassin would never have enough wits about him to know how to hide. Foolish. As if that was not what he is trained for. He stays hidden. 

Until someone’s disturbing the peace of his alley with a fight. He almost rolls over and continues pretending to be taking a late afternoon nap—but then there is gasping for breath and the distinctive sound of someone getting beat up. Goddamn it.

It takes 5 well placed moves to disable the 4 attackers. He lets the man lean on him to catch his breath, and gives a terse smile when thanked.

He does not know much in terms of first aid—usually the serum took care of that. But the man— who introduces himself as Elijah—insists he’s fine, and he lets the issue drop.

Unfortunately, Elijah doesn’t let him go. “Hey, wait a minute,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re not going to go back there, are you?”

“I can handle myself.”

He laughs, as if he’d just made a joke instead of stating a fact. “Oh, I know you can. But they’re bound to give you trouble, and trust me, they’re not worth it.”

“Are you suggesting somewhere else?”

“Yeah, actually. I know a place.”

He follows Elijah, letting him talk and talk. He doesn’t seem bothered by how he doesn’t get a response. Actually, he takes his silence for answers half the time. He wonders if Elijah knows how many weaknesses he’s giving away about himself. Where he's lived before, why he was getting beaten up in an alley, his favorite type of bird.

They reach a large, open park with statues littered around it. “This is my favorite part of the city,” Elijah says. “Usually there’s more people around, but they’re all worried because of what happened on Roosevelt Island the other day.”

“You aren’t?”

His laugh is warm as it echoes through the empty park. “I’m not thrilled about it, but what can I do? Anyways, better for us to enjoy. You ever been here?”

“No.”

“Really?” He grins and spreads his arms wide. “Let me give you the tour. We’re passing the Korean War memorial right now, want to go see it?”

He’s not sure exactly what the Korean War was, but it’s something he’s expected to know about if there’s a whole memorial to it. The statues marching through the greenery looks nice, but it would be a test of knowledge he doesn’t have.

“Where’s the place you were talking about earlier?”

“It’s just up here. It’s the—actually, it’s best if you see it for yourself. Then I’ll explain.”

Elijah’s giddiness is tangible as they continue walking. Finally, they approach a set of steps with a low incline ramp next to it. “Ready?”

He nods, and they make their way up.

The staircase gives way to a large oval. On the long edges, there are raised planters that are home to dozens of trees. The short edges are open, and the setting sun shines after them, illuminating the backs of 6 statues. They are realistic, and probably the same proportions they were in life. They look out onto a reflecting pool, their shadows extending across it to the other side.

The 3 on the right lean towards each other as if in conversation. The one to that group’s left stands tall, looking slightly over to the gap at his left, where only a circle of bronze indicates there should be someone there. Then, the two on the left of the gap are also talking, and their posture is loose as if someone had just told a joke.

“What happened to that statue?” He points at the gap in the lineup. It is missing someone. “Was it damaged?

“That’s what it seems like, doesn’t it?” Elijah starts. “It’s always been left blank. This is the Howling Commandos memorial, so they left a spot open for the only one on their team that died. Captain America was considered missing, even before they found him in the ice.”

“Who are the Howling Commandos?” he asks. 

“You don’t know? I thought everyone had one of those phases.” Elijah shrugs. “I guess not. Anyways, they fought in World War 2 together and went after the scientific branch of Nazis. Apparently they were designing some crazy weapons and were even going to use them on Germany itself. But that one, the guy in the middle, rescued them from a POW work camp and they joined his team.”

He stares at the one in the middle, trying to place him. Then, it comes to him, and he can’t believe he didn’t see it before. “That’s Steve Rogers.”

Elijah grins. “I knew you were messing with me.”

“Had you fooled,” he says, forcing the corner of his mouth to quirk up. He grins, as if he knew all along. “I just never knew there was a memorial for them.”

“Of course there is. I mean, he might be a fugitive now—or he saved the world again, no one knows yet—but it’s gotten popular since they found him in the ice a couple of years ago. Apparently, those superhero genes of his kept him alive after he crashed that plane into the Arctic.”

He, quite frankly, didn’t know what to do with that information. Something makes him say, “He couldn’t find another way to land the plane?”

Elijah snorts. “Well, there were some active bombs on it, but other than that, there are some theories that his best friend had just died. Some people questioned his mental health. Of course, not until later, no one really knew what to do with soldiers who were struggling with that.”

Grief makes people act rashly, he recalls from his training. There...there was a time when he’d used that to his advantage. But when? Why?

“You alright?”

He clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Anyways, the spot’s left open for his best friend.”

“Why?”

Elijah looks around. There are a few plaques around the perimeter with more information. “Over here.”

They walk over to one of them, and there’s a quote: 

> “[Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes] was an inspiration to so many people—not for his extraordinary skills, but for his commitment to protecting his friends. He is someone we should all aspire to become, and it starts by stepping into his role by protecting our loved ones.”
> 
> —Ruby Barnes, Lead Designer of the Howling Commandos Memorial

He stares at the plaque for longer than necessary, trying to trace the cause of the way his heart clenches. Who was Ruby Barnes? 

And that name, it’s what Steve Rogers called him on the helicarriers. But how could he have died, yet be standing at his own memorial at the same time? The likelihood that there are multiple James Barnes that go by Bucky, and also were friends with Steve Rogers is slim. He must be who Steve Rogers thinks Bucky Barnes is—but how is that possible?

He’s been quiet too long. “Stepping into his role?” he asks. 

Elijah grins. “That’s why his spot is open—we’re supposed to step up next to them all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, go on. You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to follow Captain America.”

Something in that statement makes him pause. “I haven’t.”

Elijah rolls his eyes and pushes him forward. He lets himself be shoved, and walks up to the statues.

He wonders if the statues ever get tired of looking out over the same thing. Wherever the real Howling Commandos are, they’re probably enjoying their old age, or resting, or playing games with their grandchildren. If they’re not dead, after leaving a life free of the war.

Things have changed for all of them. Yet here he is, and he hasn’t rested a day in decades.

He turns around and makes a flimsy excuse to leave. 

* * *

Spending time with Elijah is nice, but it’s no way to continue. From the newspapers they’ve found discarded in trash cans, Hydra is in shambles. It’ll be awhile before they can organize again. It's now or never.

Yet, he almost does not go to the bank vault. 

It’s a near thing. Strategically, he has to. It is the only way he can get supplies and information about himself in the same place while also taking out any who were foolish enough to stay. It’s the best opportunity. It’s efficient. 

But he cannot walk in. 

It is strange. Most of his memories are in this room. There are a dozen flashes of other rooms like this, and half that where he does not answer to handlers. He should be almost comfortable here—yet he is not. 

He cannot walk in. 

He has to. 

He takes a deep breath. There is no one inside that can hurt him. He takes another breath. And another. He will not be trapped here. He will walk out. One more and…

He cannot walk in. Damn it.

He can't even convince himself he's safe. Alright, there's only one thing to do then.

He takes every door off its hinges from the entrance to the vault, bending it off when he has to. He lines the doors up against a wall. It looks like one of those weird art installations he's seen around the city.

Now, finally, he walks in. It is surprisingly anticlimactic. Papers are strewn haphazardly across the room, and the monitors are still on. The guards and technicians are long gone, and probably left in a hurry once they realized their plan to replace him with a series of murderous satellites was going up in flames.

Oh, yes. He knew about that. Handlers and guards and techs talk so fucking much.

He makes quick work of the chair. Like the doors, he dismantles the pieces, then bends them beyond repair. He rips it apart and barely prevents himself from smashing the monitors. He needs those.

But the chair? If he never sees it again it will be far, far too soon. So it goes. It joins the doors in a large pile of destroyed metal. Maybe if whoever stumbles across the vault tries to reconstruct it, they will mistakenly throw a couple of door knobs in. 

He snorts and adds more pieces to the pile, only satisfied when the bolts that held it to the floor join.

Well, then. No more chair.

He turns his attention to the monitors. Normally they show pictures of his vitals, his brain, and other things they certainly never bothered explaining to him. But now he takes the time to study it. He goes through the files—someone had taken the time to organize and color code them. His mission reports are colored red.

At least it is good for something. There is a file saved that documents his care. How helpful, there is a table of contents with chapters such as _Basic Care, Asset Capabilities, Ensuring Compliance, Erratic behavior, Mission Guide,_ and _Reinforcing Programming._

He knows the contents of the latter chapters better than anyone, so he clicks on Basic Care.

> _In order for the Asset to reach optimal maintenance levels, 7,000 calories should be consumed. It should be noted that the Asset is functional at 1,500 calories. Even though the Asset is trained to complete the mission without regard to physical health, and will be as functional as the body is. Administer 4 ounces of nutrient powder mixed with water twice daily to meet upper level of caloric needs._

The rest of the chapter follows in a similar fashion. However, it has some useful instructions for performing maintenance on the arm. He memorizes it for future use. Then, there is an entire subsection on how to utilize the trackers within his arm.

Definitely fucking not.

They are old, and are not accurate enough to give Hydra a specific location on him. Good. It's the one thing he has going for him. 

He locates the tools for his arm’s maintenance in the mess of papers on the floor. There is a shiny piece of broken glass that will serve as a mirror. Tools in hand, he opens up the panel on his arm.

There have been long missions where he was taught to do basic maintenance on his arm but was strictly forbidden from removing anything. Of course, he does not remember even the basic arm-care training he was given, so he has to rely on the manual’s guide to switching out cartridges.

It is not as easy as the directions make it seem. 

For one thing, he cannot even see his arm, and relies on the shiny glass more than he would like to. And for the other, it is nothing like the directions. So mostly, it is guessing. But it works, and before long he has all four trackers outside his arm, and all the panels are closed properly. 

Four seems a little redundant. But they make wonderful sounds as they crash into the door-chair pile.

There are drug capsules, too. As much as he wants to take them out, there’s no telling what it’ll do to him. He cannot afford that weakness.

He sets the tools aside for the moment and works on getting supplies.

There are a few spare duffel bags full of weapons in the corner. At least he knows they are untraceable. He empties all three of them out, then picks across them for the most useful to take with him. 

By the end of it, only 8 knives, 2 pistols, a small rifle, and various forms of ammo remain. There are also several inactive trackers. He puts the tools for his arm in the pile as well. And in the corner, unfortunately, are plastic containers of dehydrated nutrient supplement shakes. He, regrettably, takes those, too.

And...he is in a bank. From what he can tell, about half of the cash has already been stolen. He feels no guilt whatsoever in taking a large supply for himself.

With some clever rearranging, it all fits into the smallest duffel bag. And that fits into the medium one nicely, masking the shape of the weapons. At least it does not look like he is carrying a small armory around. He is, but he doesn't want people to know it.

He leaves without a backwards glance. Good fucking riddance. It is a near thing he does not set it on fire, first. But he has to be a ghost.

Next, the obvious fact: he will not blend in if he does not look the part. 

He locates a department store and hides in a neighboring alley. It takes him a day to understand how the security works. He shouldn't have bothered..

After hours, the store is adorably easy to break into. The security cameras are easily programmed, and most of them are fake, anyways.

So breaking into the store is easy. But figuring out what to take is more difficult. There are so many options and styles and colors and fabrics. And not to mention most of it is expensive. 

Luckily he is just stealing it. He should feel bad, but surely, stealing is not the worst thing he has ever done. 

At least his surveillance is put to good use, and he’s picked up enough information on what's in style. Besides, he has taste—the bright shirt dotted with dollar bills is not even a consideration.

Neutrals it is. He picks out enough things to layer with to hide his shape on his top half, and a couple of thick pairs of jeans. A few extra shirts. A baseball cap to hide his face. Underwear. Socks. There is even a nice pair of work boots he puts on. At the last moment, he nabs a set of black gloves. He wears those immediately.

Getting the supplies was the easy part of all this. Now, all he has to do is figure out who Steve is, and maybe figure out who he is in the process. Not a problem.

* * *

It had been easy to locate the Smithsonian, with news outlets debating whether or not the Smithsonian exhibit should be taken down given that it was funded by SHIELD-turned-Hydra, and no one knew just how deep their roots went. From experience: pretty damn far.

So three days later, no one questions the deadly assassin buying a ticket into the Smithsonian. Duffie bag hidden in a nearby dumpster, he makes his way through the museum. He walks casually through the Air and Space exhibits and does not have to pretend to be fascinated by them.

People have gone to space—actual, empty, black space. He follows behind a tour and listens to the guide talk about the Space Race, Neil Armstrong, and NASA. Someone gives a speech about the possibility of life on Mars. It is not a hardship to act interested.

But it is not why he came.

The Captain America exhibit focuses on WW2, and details his numerous missions and accomplishments. There are biographies of each of the Howling Commandos that portray them as only their supporting roles. The museum exhibit shows off how the US takes pride in Captain America’s accomplishments. The part where Steve was small and had health issues seems to be added as a side note. 

Even he, who knows only a scant handful of facts about Steve, knows that 20 years of chronic health issues will affect a person more than the comparatively few years without.

So if he were forced to predict it, he would say that the museum would be wrong. Something in him knows that no museum to Captain America will also be to Steve Rogers. He is right, and everything is ever-so-slightly off.

There is a picture of “Captain America’s apartment in 1940” that depicts a clean, lived-in and overall nice apartment with plenty of natural light. He can not say how he knows, but Steve did not live there. Steve is a goddamn slob who always leaves his shit everywhere. And their apartment was horrible. And it was theirs—they shared it.

They...had their bathtub doubling as their table. The walls were covered with Steve’s art, and one that he did and Steve insisted on putting up as well. It was an awful tenement with no ventilation and can only be classified as an apartment with a loose interpretation of the word. None of this “modestly middle class” nonsense. They were better off than the poorest, but the majority of their money went to Steve’s medicine.

Steve handpicked the Howling Commandos, it says on a plaque. So each one of them were brilliant in their own right. From the statistics alone, they were all invaluable. They would have seen terrible things in that war. But from the warm feeling he gets when he thinks of them...they were good men. They should be remembered.

And yet...if he served with them, they would have been his closest friends. He should remember them. A museum should not have to teach him this.

He turns and sees a photo of “Captain America helping out the war effort by participating in shows to advertise war bonds,” and gets it. This is the Captain America exhibit for a reason—not the Steve Rogers exhibit. 

Still, it makes sense why they would want to blend history. Everything was designed to further the war effort. Captain America and the Howling Commandos were propaganda pieces. At least that, the manipulation of a person’s image, made sense.

It is a damn shame, though.

He has never been truly scared. There has always been a feeling that he’s been through this before, whether it was going into cryo, getting his mind wiped, being tortured, or going on missions. He has done all of that before. Never this.

He has never actually died. And yet, here was this museum telling him he did. He died in Steve’s service, and days later, Steve crashed a plane into the Arctic.

His knowledge of Steve is limited, but it does sound like the type of recklessly heroic thing Steve would be prone to. Elijah mentioned his recklessness might have been out of grief. 

It makes sense that out of anyone who could survive, Steve would be stubborn enough to do it. It makes sense that he is here, decades later.

And Bucky? Who is he, really? What is the type of thing Bucky is prone to? He knows he wanted to protect Steve Rogers. Even besides the faint, half-memories he has, the museum is practically screaming it. There is a section of the wall dedicated to Bucky. He was the oldest brother, an athlete, and good in school. He was a marksman. He and Steve were friends. He was captured, only to be rescued by Steve.

The half memories tell him he was given the choice to join the Howling Commandos or not. He chose Steve. And fought for Steve and him alone. Not the US Army, not any particular unit, not any other group. 

Bucky was loyal to Steve.

He thinks he would have liked him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art in this chapter was done by the (absolutely brilliant) leathermouthed on twitter and on here! Go take a look, she's incredible! https://twitter.com/leathermouthed?s=21


	3. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See trigger warnings at end.

Bucky finds a bus station accidentally. After activating the trackers and leaving them on buses going around the country, he hops on a bus to Brooklyn. It’s the first thing today that’s made sense.

Then...he wanders. For the most part, he avoids the business districts all together. He’s not nearly well-dressed enough to pass for a wealthy businessman. And there, people are more willing to call the cops on someone who’s where they’re not supposed to be.

But the parks and tourist areas are good. He sleeps on benches and outside cafes until someone comes along to chase him away. No one looks twice at his gloved hands, and no one thinks to suspect he’s an assassin.

He finds an empty plastic water bottle and he dumps some of the nutrient shake into it. He sips it throughout the day, and when it runs out, he finds a fountain to refill it. He watches homeless people, and takes note of where they go for food. Sometimes stores—not an option—and sometimes dumpsters. It does the job.

He’s unwilling to be caught off guard. Hydra may be in shambles, but he’s under no illusions: they’re not dead. He can’t afford to be taken back.

Despite how people look at him with pitying eyes—when they look at him at all—it’s not a bad way to live. 

When he has food, sometimes stray dogs come up to him and beg—he always gives them half. From his favorite alleyway, he can hear someone playing upbeat, fast music. The alley is nice. It’s not even as dirty as he expects. And three times after they close, he breaks into gyms to use their showers, stealing just enough of other people’s soaps to go unnoticed. 

He spends two weeks wandering the city.

That is, until he comes across the sounds of an alleyway scuffle. He almost walks on, refusing to trust his instinct that it is familiar when he has no actual memories of it. 

But...there has been nothing this familiar for days. Something in him knows what an alley fight sounds like and knows he has to intervene. Sure enough, there are two kids standing over another one on he ground.

The kid is surrounded, with one on either side, blocking any chance of escape.

The two larger bullies can’t be older than 15, and are looking at the other one with such hatred in their eyes. Both of the boys are arrogant, and hold themselves with way too much surety. For his part, the other kid, tall and lanky with dark skin, seems to be holding up well enough. But it won’t last forever; he’s already swaying.

The bullies are let out cruel laughs as they continue to shove him around, and one of them punches him square in the face. The kid crumples.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Bucky shouts, coming closer. 

The bullies look at each other, then bolt down the other end of the alley. Slowly, the kid realizes they’ve left and starts to peel himself up from the pavement.

From beneath a freshly blacken eye, he glares at Bucky. “I didn’t need your help." He winces as he brushes himself off.

“I know you didn’t,” Bucky says. “Can you get yourself home?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning against a wall for support. He tries to take a step but uses the wall to push off as much as his legs. 

How convincing.

“Well, I know my Ma would kill me if she knew I left you here,” Bucky says. Truth be told, he doesn’t remember much about his Ma, but he sees curly dark hair and an exasperated expression when he thinks of her. And with a best friend like Steve, he would have gotten into trouble. So he’s guessing it’s not too far off. “Alright if I walk you?”

“Fine,” he grumbles. Clearly, he’s not pleased about it, and Bucky isn’t sure why he’s not more surprised. Probably something to do with Steve. Everything has to do with Steve. The kid bends down gingerly and starts collecting folders and books and pencils into a backpack. 

“Great. What’s your name?”

“Lucas.” He begrudgingly lets his arm go over Bucky’s shoulder, but doesn’t let him take most of his weight. Bucky doesn’t even ask if he’s alright to carry his bag. With his duffel bag in his left, gloved metal hand, and Lucas’ arm around the other shoulder, they start walking out of the alley. “You?”

“James.” He’ll think about having an identity crisis later, if he gets around to it, at why he introduces himself by another name. As far as he can tell, he hasn't gone by James since he was a kid. But least James is more common than Bucky. He’s pretty sure the opposite is why he started going by the nickname. Ironic, then, that he’s giving it up in favor of anonymity. Or maybe he’s just thinking too much about it. Whatever, his name isn’t very high on his priority list.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“So then why are you doing this?”

Truth be told, Bucky was only half sure himself. “Those kids shouldn’t have been picking on you.”

Lucas huffs. “How do you know I wasn’t picking on them?”

“You’re telling me you picked a fight for no reason and lost?” Bucky sends a halfhearted smile at a woman walking by who is giving them a concerned look. His answering look says something like everything is under control. Or, he hopes it does. He can’t imagine what they must look like, a lanky, beat up kid and a badly-dressed young man—hell, he probably looks beat up, too.

“Yeah, alright,” he sighs. “They were talking shit about my dad and I couldn’t let it happen.”

Now that was familiar. “Good. You shouldn't.  


Lucas sends him a strange, sideways look, and turns back to the street. They pass a few more buildings, and then he clears his throat. “This one’s me.”

The building in question is on par with the ones on the rest of the street: they’re mostly 4 story buildings with one small apartment per floor, by the looks of it. 

But this one is certainly the oldest, if the faded brick is anything to go by. There are a few little kids down the street playing basketball with a crate attached to a street light, and a few families on the doorsteps. He helps Lucas hobble up the few steps to the front door.

As he’s getting out his key from his book bag, the door opens to reveal a dark-skinned woman with hair that’s starting to gray. She looks no less capable for it. Her glasses slip down her nose as she looks between the two of them. “Lucas?”

“Hi, Ellie.” He shuffles his feet.

Bucky feels like doing the same, but resists out of spite. He wishes he knew why he’s worried he’s about to get scolded. His best guess is still Steve. She subjects Lucas—mostly him, anyways—to her stern look before holding the door open. 

Bucky lets Lucas’ arm fall off his shoulder, who mumbles, “Thanks.”

He turns to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ellie still has the door open.

Bucky blinks in surprise. “I was just walking him home.”

“And now you’re going to come in and tell me exactly what happened that got him so roughed up.”

Lucas—the little shit—hides his snicker with a cough.

Ellie rounds on him too, and levels a glare at him. “You’re lucky your parents aren’t home yet, young man.” 

Not seeing another choice, he follows Ellie and a chastised Lucas inside.

The hallway is painted what once might have been a vibrant blue, but now is faded into something softer. There’s a single window at the end by the staircase and several pictures hung up. Ellie scolds Lucas the entire time, but it seems more routine than anything, and he is in no danger.

Lucas leans against the wall to take off his shoes, and after a moment, he does too. They leave their shoes by the front door, and Bucky goes into the apartment in just his socks.

The apartment is small, but cozy. The walls are decorated with faded, floral wallpaper and old, framed photos. The kitchen flows into a cramped living room. There are three doors, which probably lead to a closet, a bathroom, and a bedroom. On the other side of the apartment is a worn armchair, a couch, a completely filled bookshelf, and a small TV. 

In the kitchen area, there’s a large table with 6 chairs. Lucas pulls one out and plops into it without being told. Ellie gets a box full of bandages and medicine supplies from one of the cabinets.

She takes in Bucky standing awkwardly by the door and says, “Put your bag down, young man, and come help.” She hands him the box and grabs a frozen bag of peas.

Duffel set by the door, he pulls out the chair next to Lucas. The box is a catch-all for injury-related supplies, probably for exactly this reason. He starts cleaning his busted knuckles with a tube that says it’s supposed to be anti-bacterial. 

Lucas gives him a strange look, as he only took off his right glove. It’s strange enough wearing gloves in spring, let alone in doors. Or maybe he can tell that it’s metal, and is connecting the dots between a metal-armed assassin and him. Or he’s just creeped out by it in general.

Bucky does not offer an explanation, and Lucas doesn't ask.  


“Have you done this before, James?” Ellie passes the bag of peas wrapped in a towel over to Lucas, who presses it over his eye. 

He looks up, and sees another woman—only she has white skin white, younger, and wearing her nurse’s scrubs and signature, exasperatedly fond expression. 

When he looks at Lucas, he sees a younger Steve, with yet another gash on his face from where the fist fight turned into a bottle fight. Bucky blinks, and Sarah and Steve are gone. “All the time, ma’am.”

Thankfully, Ellie starts interrogating Lucas, and leaves Bucky to process why this keeps happening. He’s aware of his surroundings when he sees other people like that. It’s just that his mind...blends them and it’s all he can think about. It’s annoying, that’s what it is.

“And you?” Ellie, apparently satisfied with whatever Lucas told her, turns to him. “Where do you come into this?”

It’s almost funny, how thinking about his thoughts distracting him made him distracted. He shakes his head a little to clear it. “I was just walking, and heard a scuffle in the alley. When I got there, the other kids ran down the alley, and he was like this.”

Lucas shifts as Ellie examines his bruised ribs. He says, “What were you even doing before this?”

“Just taking a walk.” It’s not even a lie—all he’s been doing is walking.

Ellie scoffs. “With a bag like that?”

“I, uh...My housing situation didn’t work out. Roommates, you know?”

The two of them exchange a look, and Bucky isn’t sure he likes it. She asks, “What happened?”

“I’d rather not go into it.” Bucky grimaces, like he’s talking about a nasty fight with his roommate, not hiding how he’s a fugitive from a secret organization that regularly used him as an assassin.

Oh, shit. He’s a fugitive, now. What the hell is he doing in some woman’s apartment, bandaging a kid up from a fight?

Lucas raises his eyebrows at Ellie and immediately winces, like he forgot about his black eye. In response, she lifts one shoulder. 

He puts the bag of peas against his bruised side. “Where are you going now?”

“Not really sure, to be honest.”

Ellie claps her hands together. “Well, then. I have a vacancy on the fourth floor apartment, if you’re interested. It’s been vacant for weeks, and I want to have it filled by the end of the month. It’d help me out to have another renter.”

He fiddles with the tube of the anti-bacterial medicine. “Um, you want me?”

“I can give you a reduced rate or we can figure out a payment plan, if necessary,” Ellie offers. “We can go through the lease together, if you need clarification.”

Lucas leans in, all conspiratorial. “Ellie’s stubborn. She’s not going to let it go.”

Ellie hits him on the arm with a towel. It’s not very hard, and Bucky gets the sense it normally would have been over the head, if he wasn’t injured. “I heard that.”

Bucky considers her offer. It’s an inconspicuous part of the city, and it’ll be easy to blend in. Snipers will have a hard time due to the arrangement of the buildings on the block and brick is hard to shoot through. There are enough windows to provide him with surveillance and escape opportunities. Strategically, it’s half-way decent. With some furniture rearranging, it’s even defensible. And...

Ellie and Lucas seem like good people. “If you’re sure, then I’d be grateful. Thank you.”

After Lucas is cleaned, bandaged, and scolded, the three of them go to take a look at an apartment. 

An apartment...holy shit.

Ellie runs through the specs of the apartment, going over things Bucky has no idea existed. Of course, he acts like he’s paying attention, and memorizes everything she says out of habit, but he is beyond lost. As long as she’s reasonably certain it’s not going to spontaneously catch fire, he’s good. Hell, he might even be alrght with that as a defense measure.

Apparently he’d never gone apartment hunting, because he barely has the half-memories of what he’s supposed to look for.

She seems impressed by his questions about ventilation and temperature fluctuations, so at least it seems like she believes he’s apartment hunted at least once before. He isn’t trying to be rude, but he’s out of his depth.

Lucas seems to know it, because he spends the entire time poking around and generally not being helpful. He even rolls his eyehen he and Ellie get into a conversation about the apartment’s wiring. He agrees, not that he’ll tell the kid that.

“This place was rebuilt in ‘59, and my parents had the wiring redone in ‘85. It’s older than most buildings, but I had parts replaced just a few years ago, and the engineer said it wasn’t due for a full replacement for a few more years,” Ellie says. 

Bucky’s not sure how to respond, given that, according to the Smithsonian, he’s older than the building itself. He nods along. “That’s perfect.”

“As for furniture, you’re welcome to keep anything the last tenant left,” she says. The furniture in question is a crooked lamp, well-worn couch, a mattress, a random assortment of kitchen utensils, a table with a broken leg, and a fading movie poster. 

He’s not above 2nd hand furniture. Hell, the furniture is definitely way younger than he is. “I don’t mind, ma’am.”

She doesn’t press, and before long, Bucky is left alone in an actual apartment he has all to himself. Deafening silence rings out around him.

* * *

The drug capsules are even harder to remove than the trackers.

The bathroom mirror and overhead lights are barely enough to see the inner workings of his arm. The manual said 3 of them provide him with a steady supply of the capsules’ contents, and 3 are ready to be remotely deployed to incapacitate him at all times. As it turns out, that means they’re really fucking close to his nerves.

Bucky’s no stranger to pain, but poking himself in raw nerve endings is not ideal.

And it happens a dozen times before he even gets the first one out. He hisses as it finally comes, the liquid sloshing in its tiny vial. It’s one of the constant dosing vials and it’s only a quarter gone. The manual did not say what they did, only that it was imperative they are only removed to refill them.

Who knows how long it would have kept dosing him? Who knows what it contains?

He goes for the second one with a renewed vigor. Bucky is not spending another day with those in him.

Even if it’s painful as fuck to remove.

Every joint in his body is sore, and he just wants his hands to stop shaking. He almost passes out from the blinding pain when he accidentally triggers an internal mechanism that fucking electrocutes him.

Why the fuck would they put that in?

But as the sun is rising, all 6 of them are out.

He drops the tools and sags against the bathroom door. He’s not sure how long he stays there, but he doesn’t get up for a long time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: taking out drug capsules from his arm and gets nauseous. Bucky also begins to experience drug withdrawl symptoms.  
> If you want to skip, it starts after the horizontal divider and begins with, "The drug capsules" to the end of the chapter.


	4. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes is a liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See trigger warnings at end.

It’s only later that it occurs to him that he should not have taken the drug capsules out all at once. Of course, he’s not going to put them back in, now, so there’s really nothing to do about it.

He’s checking the supplies in his duffel bags when his hands start shaking bad enough that he has to put down the 7 inch blade he’s holding. Slowly, gingerly, he gets out the goddamn nutrient powder and fills the plastic bottle with water.

But he thinks of drinking it and...nope.

He makes it back to the bathroom and hunches over the toilet. The vials taunt him from their place on the counter. He’d dump them down the drain but the last thing he needs is a toxic chemical reaction. They go in the corner of the cabinet under the sink.

He runs cold water over his face. That helps a little. He goes to drink some water and is hit with a wave of nausea so bad he collapses.

One of the fucking tools he left out slices his right hand open and he lets out a string of curses so severe Lucas would be impressed and his parents would be mad at him.

Well, the next time they quit a mud-sludge of drugs, they can be mad at him. Fuck.

The cold water feels nice under his bleeding hand, even as it’s shaking. Within 10 minutes, it starts to knit closed. Well congradu-fucking-lations to his hand, he’d much rather his healing factor work on whatever is going on in his fucking brain.

It’s fully healed soon enough, and he makes his way to the bedroom.

He means to sleep on the mattress, but it’s drenched in sweat and uncomfortable in a few minutes. In his underwear, he lies on the floor. But the mattress serves its purpose and blocks the window.

Theoretically, he should have passed out immediately from exhaustion. But hours later, he still can’t.

It’s the silence. Well, and his heart is pounding and it won’t stop, but the silence is bad too. He tries to avoid thinking about how hot everything is, how much his joints and muscles ache, how he can’t stop shaking.

This is a mistake, too.

With his serum, he can hear the old building shift and creak, the neighbor below him playing music, a few rats in the alley. The front door slamming as the people in the building come and go. 

And every set of footsteps becomes his handlers. Every voice becomes a guard. Every time he closes his eyes he is back in the chair, or waking up from cryo, or strapped to a table and trying to shut out the pain. The flashes of memory repeat themselves as if on a loop.

It’s more than that. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever lived alone. When he isn’t constantly reminding himself he isn’t in Hydra’s control, he’s searching for another person’s breathing. 

Only when he does that, he focuses on the sounds of the building, the neighbors’ music, and footsteps. Which makes him think of Hydra again.

It gets so bad that he starts doing physics calculations and comparing the specs on the weapons he’d stolen from the vault. He even runs through Ellie’s apartment specs. He is safe enough. Now he just needs to convince his brain.

He has to retrace his steps several times because he can’t fucking focus and the calculations keep slipping.

He goes through the math anyways.

He imagines how he might use the weapons in different situations to hit a target—a bullseye, not a person. For once. 

He does the calculations for stationary targets. Then if the target is moving. Then if he is moving. Then if both are moving. Then if he is throwing a knife instead of shooting a gun. 

The routine calculations, at least, let him drift off into something like sleep.

And because his brain seems to have a grudge against him, he remembers These are the very few good ones.

* * *

* * *

He’s young enough to be world-weary and still optimistic. It’s a strange combination he can usually sway towards optimism. But tonight, something weighs him down. It’s late, so he enters the room slowly.

Becca sits on her bed, legs swinging as she absently flips through the last few pages of one of his books. 

“I thought I told you not to read that?” Bucky sighs and takes off his coat and folds it over the foot of his bed. It’s an old one of his dad’s he’s finally grown into, so he’s careful not to rumple it.

Becca huffs, then tosses it on his bed. She turns off the light, not caring that he can’t see anymore. He gets ready for bed in the dark, not giving her the satisfaction of turning the light back on. “How was your date?”

He smiles. “It was good. Molly’s a real great dancer.”

“Yeah, it was good because of the dancing.” Through the darkness, he can hear her smirking

He folds the rest of his clothes and gets into his old pajamas. “Well, I’m not about to tell you that.”

“Why, get up to something you’re not supposed to?” She leans down to ball up her dirty sock and throw it at him.

He throws it right back at her and slips under his blankets. “No, because you’re my sister and it’s weird.”

She snorts. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You didn’t even kiss her, did you?”

He groans, knowing he’s never going to hear the end of it. As it is, he’s glad she can’t see how warm his face is getting. “It was just a fun night out, she’s nothing serious.”

“You want it to be?”

“Not really.” He rolls over to face her across their small room and finds that she’s already looking at him. “She’s boring, anyways.”

“You mean she didn’t like Steve?”

He throws his hands up. Him, Steve, Molly, and Nancy went out dancing together and the girls barely even spoke to him. Steve said it was fine, and let Bucky take Molly out on the floor. And she was a fun dancer, but... “What the hell kinda person doesn’t like Steve?”

“Not everyone has to like your friends, Bucky.” But even as she says it, he can tell that she’s glad he won’t be seeing Molly much more.

“Anyone serious does.” He rolls his eyes. Like he’s trading Steve for some girl. He refuses to talk about it anymore. “Did you actually read that book, or were you just bored?”

“Both. I thought I’d hate it, but once I started it, it wasn’t so bad. It reminds me of one of Belle’s stories.”

She loves his books and they both know it. ‘Oh yeah? I bet you didn’t get to the part with the dragon.”

“I did.” She pauses for a long time just to torture him with it. “The dragon is the best part.”

Of course it is, it’s a dragon. Ma will be mad at Bucky for keeping her up, but they spend the rest of the night talking about it. Becca drifts off mid-way into a discussion about what dragons would look like, and Bucky falls asleep to the sound of her even breathing.

* * *

* * *

Bucky hates everything about Mrs. Rogers’ job. It leaves her tired and worn out, and she is always worried about getting enough hours so she could pay for Steve’s medicine. The hospital doesn’t pay her enough and looks down on her for being a single mother. She alternates between working days or nights—whichever gives her the most hours. But no matter when, the shifts are always long.

The one good thing is that when Mrs. Rogers works nights, Steve gets to stay over. 

Of course, it’s not all that glamorous. The Barnes family stopped seeing Steve as a guest years ago, so he joins Bucky in helping his sisters with their homework, doing their own homework, helping with dinner, and doing his chores. He always gets way more when Steve comes over which seems unfair. But at least it’s better doing it with Steve than by himself. 

And then, because Bucky still shares a room with Becca because she refused to share with their younger sisters, they get to take the couch cushions off the sofa and sleep in the living room. 

At his parents’ insistence, they sleep with Bucky on Steve’s left. That way, Steve’s bad ear makes sure they don’t stay up all night. At least, it would if they don’t always swap when his parents go to bed. Bucky’s particularly proud of that plan, but it’s Steve’s idea to say one of them sleep walked. It’s foolproof.

Bucky’s only 14, and Steve’s 6 months younger. But despite their huge age gap, Steve knows so much about the world. 

Hospitals never have any interesting books, so Steve always reads the boring books about politics, medicine, history, and those things. Sometimes, Steve finds one that’s really interesting and has Bucky read it to him. He makes all these excuses about his eyes—which are true, they’re not the best—but mostly he just wants to read it with him.

And he does, too, whenever Steve asks him. He doesn’t even hate them all the time. He just likes the books with aliens and dragons and adventure a lot better. If he’s really sick—too sick to absorb the boring books—he’ll let Bucky read those to him and Steve’ll draw pictures to go with.

He just has so many thoughts and ideas. Reading to Steve is nice, sometimes, but the best part is that Steve’ll tell him what he thinks about it.

They decided to go to sleep finally, but neither of them can sleep. “Hey Stevie.”

“Yeah Buck?”

“What do you think the future will be like?”

“The future?” Steve asks, incredulous. He doesn’t like thinking about the future.

“Yeah. Come on, what do you think it’ll be like?” Sometimes he thinks Steve is like the explosions in the movies or in his books. He lives and he fights and he burns like he’ll never do it again if he stops for just a moment and imagines a time when he’s not burning so bright. But thinking about the future has got to be good for him. It’s the _future_. 

“We’ll probably get married to a couple of girls, won’t we?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, even as something dropped in his chest. “Course, but what do you want the future to be like?”

He laughs quietly, careful not to wake anyone up. “Cleaner?”

He leans further into the couch cushions, then snorts, pretending to be confused. “Why?”

“It’s just awful how badly people are treating the environment.” Steve says. “Take FDR and his new policies with redoing the national park programs and stuff. That’ll be good for people for years.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. The air would be better, and people wouldn’t damage the earth so much.”

“You wouldn’t get sick as much,” Bucky points out. Steve stiffens, he hates talking about it, but it’s true. “But what are we going to do at a national park? We’re from the city. We can’t go to the wilderness.”

Steve thinks about it. “Maybe we’ll learn how to camp.”

“You want to go camping?” Bucky snorts from laughter. Just the thought of them putting up a tent, or whatever they do, is hilarious. 

“No, see, here’s what we’ll do." Steve starts in on his elaborate plan of learning how to camp, which includes: plenty of birds, a Russian man, and a goat, although Bucky doesn't understand that last part.

Bucky falls asleep listening to Steve talk about the future. He can’t wait to get there.

* * *

* * *

Bucky is fine. Sure, a little roughed up from Zola, but he’s fine. Sure, if Steve wasn’t in fucking Europe with a literal target on his back, he’d probably take Phillips’ offer and go back home. But that’s not going to happen. 

However worried he is with Steve here, it’s nothing compared to how worried he’d be if he left him here. So it’s not happening.

Bucky’s fine. That’s what he tells Steve, what he tells his COs, what he tells the newly minted Howling Commandos, what he tells his family in his letters. He’s fine, there’s no need to worry.

Well, there is a need to worry considering that they’re still in a warzone. 

Actually, they just destroyed a Hydra base behind enemy lines and are making their way back to their side. Everyone can worry about him all they like. He’s fine. So long as they don’t look too long at how he’s faster and stronger than ever.

Of course, it just so happens that the need for secrecy overpowers the need for warmth. So the Howlies are sitting in a clearing in the middle of nowhere, huddling close together and trying to convince each other that it’s not so bad.

It takes 20 minutes for Falsworth to pull out a deck of cards.

After 3 rounds of poker, their hands start shaking so badly that they show their hands too soon. It didn’t stop Steve, though, and he’ll collect his 4 packs of cigarettes, 1 pair of socks, and 2 bars of ration chocolate once they get back to base.

“What the hell are you going to do with cigarettes?” Bucky asks. “You don’t even smoke.”

Steve, to his left, turns that blinding grin on him. For just a second, Bucky’s warm. “But I could now, if I wanted to.”

Dum Dum curses at him, Moritia looks about to, and Bucky agrees. They’re the ones who lost their cigarettes, after all.

"You do this every time.” Dum Dum rolls his eyes and gives his cards back to Falsworth. His hands are shaking as he collects everyones’ cards and puts them away.

Gabe tries to stop his teeth from chattering as he says, “The movies don’t tell you that Captain America is such an asshole.”

“‘Cause that’s all Steve,” Bucky says. “Biggest fucking punk I ever knew.”

“How’d you two become friends, anyways?” Falsworth tightens his coat around him. The damn asshole had lucky hands all night.

Steve starts the story, this time. 

The thing is, neither of them remember how they met. 

They know that they lied to their parents about it, telling different stories to each side of the family. Whenever someone at school asked, they’d make up something different. There are probably about a dozen stories floating around about what actually happened, and any of them could be right.

“Bucky was walking his sisters home after school one day. He’s got three of them, and they’re still the scariest dames around. They get that from their Ma, you know,” Steve begins. 

It’s true. Ruby and Maribelle had thrown such fits when they figured out Bucky and Becca both had nicknames that started with B’s that they’d demanded to have one too. So, Bee and Bell joined the “B-club” and the four of them were terrors to their parents ever since. But it was Sarah Rogers who’d suggested the younger Barnes siblings have a little strike to get what they wanted.

“They get that from your Ma, too!” Bucky hisses. He isn’t about to let this made up story be told wrong, that would just be tragic. “You remember how she almost made that priest when you were 10 quit the ministry all together?”

The others look between them with rapt interest. 

This might be the third time they’ve heard the story of how they met, and Bucky thinks there’s a betting pool going as to when they’ll finally figure out the truth. He’s thinking about joining, but his money’s on Gabe’s guess that they insulted each other badly enough they instantly became friends. 

“Both of our Ma’s, then. So this group of fellas starts hollering after them. And instead of taking care of it himself, Bucky helps them set up an ambush for them.”

Bucky grins. “You should have seen them, going at the group of them like a damn whirlwind until they gave up and the fellas had to stumble home half conscious. It turns out that they’d been getting boxing lessons from this kid my age. So I get them to show me who it is, and who is it, but Steve Rogers?”

“I’ll tell you, if the Army ever got a hold of them, the war would be over before the week’s out.”

“That’s what Erskine was doing in Brooklyn, you know,” Bucky says. Technically, none of them were supposed to know anything about Project Rebirth, but the US Army’s policy of secrecy never had Steve to contend with.

Denier shakes his head at the two of them. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

“How’d you find out, then?” Gabe asks, just waiting for one of them to slip up enough to call them out on it

“Well my sisters start telling me about this job offer they got—”

Gabe shakes his head. “What, all three of them?”

“That was my thought, too. They were smart enough to realize that it had some pretty vague terms before it got too far.” Bucky levels a look at Steve, because he’s still not entirely over how reckless it was. “But they told the recruiter: if he wants someone who’ll fight anything that breathes about inequality, it’s Steve. I never even put it together until he showed up, ranting about Dr. Erskine.”

The Howlies turn to Steve, like they can catch him at odds with Bucky’s story. Yeah, right. They’ve been messing with people about this for years.

“He did tell me once about the initial idea for the project. His plan was to use strong dames like Bucky’s sisters and Agent Carter to win the war,” Steve says, because he’s a sap. “Turns out, the serum works too well on dames and it made the brass too nervous, so she went into spying, instead.”

Dum Dum coughs through his laughter. “You’re telling me, Carter’s got the serum, too?”

Bucky levels him with a puzzled look. “You haven’t noticed? Her pistol’s all bent from holding it too hard. It’s subtle, but it’s there if you know what to look for.”

For a moment, Bucky freezes. He didn’t mean to say that. He doesn’t want anyone to put it together: his rifle has handprints on it. He might have gotten stronger in the Army, but not enough to bend metal. But someone with a serum like Steve got? Maybe. Bucky doesn’t like to think about what happened in Zola’s lab but...he might have to start.

“Doesn’t change much,” Denier says. “She’d probably beat Steve in a fight.”

Steve grins like the sun rises. “Did I ever tell you the story—”

His question is met with outrage from the rest of them, but eventually they let him tell it. Steve’s so far gone on her that Bucky thinks this one might even be true. Peggy Carter is truly an incredible woman, and he sure as hell isn’t going to let Steve give up a chance with her.

And Bucky is fine. Truly. He might not think about the lab, how he’s stronger than possible, how Steve’s falling hard for Peggy and what that means for them, how they’re all miserable in the autumn wilderness...but Steve’s telling stories and his men are breathing around him.

Maybe he is fine.

* * *

This week might be the safest he’s been in decades, but Bucky knows he’s not looking his best. He’s not looking anyone’s best.

He started sleeping in the bathroom after the nausea got bad enough. Since he took the capsules out, he’s only been able to keep down 2 nutrient shakes in 7 days. He’s been standing in the shower in water as cold as it’ll get just to stop sweating. He’s on his 2nd shower today, and it’s not even noon.

Even though he knows he looks like shit, the look he gets when he answers a knock at the door tells him he’s in much worse shape than he thought. 

He’s already starting to sweat with his long sleeved shirt and gloves. He hopes it passes for not liking mornings rather than being a wreck of a human being. 

He’s not sure he succeeds.

The man blinks in surprise, then masks his concern with a smile. He’s attractive, with dark skin, short curly hair, and dimples. If the motor oil stains and the way he smells faintly like a car engine is anything to go by, he’s a mechanic. “Hi, I’m Theo.”

Bucky flashes him a smile, which must do its job because the confusion fades. “I’m James, nice to meet you, sir.” 

He holds out his hand, forcing it to still. Theo shifts the plant in his arms to shake it. There are calluses on his hands that could be from tools. He doesn’t seem to have experience with weapons, so he is not a tactical threat. “Ellie told me you moved in. My daughter and I live on the 3rd floor.” He clears his throat and holds out the thin-leafed plant. “I’ve always thought that plants make a home brighter, so I brought you a spider plant.”

“Thank you.” Bucky takes it, and this time his smile is real. He’s surprised that he likes him already. “Um, what does it need?”

“Oh, indirect sunlight is best, and water it when the soil becomes dry,” Theo says.

“I’ve never had one before.”

“Don’t worry, they’re hard to kill. My daughter can’t even manage to kill these ones.”

“I’ll try my best,” Bucky says. He leans the pot against his side so he won’t drop it. His hands still haven’t stopped fucking shaking.

Theo grins and turns to head back downstairs.

“Hey,” Bucky calls out. “Where’s the nearest store? I don’t know the area too well, yet and...”

“Oh! Of course,” he says, like he should have known. He gives Bucky the directions to one a few streets over, and even offers to draw a map.

Bucky grins. “I’m not that new to the city.”

“You’ve lived here before?”

“It’s been a while, but it comes back doesn’t it?” At least, he hopes it does. A city can change a lot in just a few years, let alone decades.

“It never leaves you,” Theo says. He starts walking backwards to the stairs. “I have to get to work, but I’ll see you later”

“Thanks.” Bucky holds up the plant, and smiles to himself as he leaves. He’ll just put the plant down and head over to get some groceries.

His motivation fades quickly. Bucky isn’t proud of how long he procrastinates for. But, hey, he’s got shit to do. 

The plant needs a spot with enough sunlight. He sorts through the assortment of abused pots and pans the last tenant left and bends the worst of the dents out of them—there are perks to having a metal arm. Then he goes through the apartment and finally gets around to hiding his weapons.

It takes longer than it should because he keeps dropping things or having to stop and deal with the nausea.

There are a few loose floorboards, a loose brick, and a loose outlet or two that he stashes some knives and his guns in. He’ll have to get around to making getaway bags to hide around the apartment. Or maybe even around the city.

And after checking the perimeter of the apartment and surrounding blocks, the day simply escapes him. It’s an honest mistake, really.

He falls into bed, exhausted, but he doesn’t dare to hope the memories won’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug withdrawl symptoms, paranoia,


	5. Freedom

The scientist’s house is easy to break into, and even easier to steal the files on nuclear energy. He gets the feeling that while her house is not neat, it is more organized than the other scientists he's been around. There are orderly stacks of papers, organized and color-coded instead of strewn around the room and illegible handwriting.

He thinks. He cannot quite remember how he knows that.

The scientist and her family live in a 2 story townhouse. Every morning, the scientist has breakfast with her family and then goes to work, bringing it home more often than not. She is usually in her home office late into the night, until her husband comes and convinces her to go to bed. She gets up early the next morning and does it all over again. 

An hour after she went to bed, he combs through the files once more, just in case he missed something. His handlers let it slip that she was about to announce her innovative nuclear energy plan that would throw a wrench in Hydra’s plan to continue to rely on coal and oil for fuel. 

Apparently, the relative scarcity of both will allow Hydra to create conflicts over it’s control in the coming years. He was careful to remain unresponsive while they ranted about how important this job was. He does not know why his handlers have not caught on, yet, that he uses their information.

After he takes the files, the other researchers will not be able to piece together the scientist’s findings. Her research will be incomplete.

He moves silently through the house to the master bedroom. He doesn’t so much as step on a creaky floorboard.

“What are you doing?” A small voice says from behind him. Irish accent.

He spins, only to see a little girl wearing a massive t-shirt that says Queen with 4 men on the front. Pink, sparkly shorts stick out at the bottom and she’s wearing bright purple slippers. She is around 75 pounds and not older than 7. Her dark hair is a mess, and he has the sudden urge to flatten it down.

How the fuck did she see him? 

His briefing did not mention a child. The last thing he needs is her screaming and waking everyone else up. It is supposed to look like the scientist and her family died of a deadly poison in their food.

His instructions are to leave no witnesses.

He crouches to her level and smiles at her. He mimics her accent. “I work with your mother. We have a big project due soon, and I just have to look these over again.”

“Oh.” Her big, brown eyes look away from him. “I thought I was dreaming again.”

“Do you get bad dreams?”

She nods and her eyes start watering. Before he can do anything about it, she throws her arms around him. “I don’t want to worry Mum, but I get them every night. I’m scared.”

Automatically, his arms come around her. He did not realize he could do this. “That’s alright.”

“Are you ever scared?” 

“Sometimes,” he says. He does not know if it is true, but others feel fear all the time. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She sniffles into his shoulder some more, and he controls his breathing. She slowly begins to match it. He will not start panicking. Once the crying loosens up, he gently pushes her back. “How about we get you back to bed, yeah.”

She nods shakily. At least her sobbing tired her out. She takes his hand as he leads her back to her room. She climbs under her covers and still does not release his hand. “Can you stay?”

“Only for a little, I have work to do,” he reminds her. Gently, he shakes off her hand and turns out her glowing lamp. It is shaped like a spaceship, and the blobs of colored fluid drift aimlessly. He sits lightly on the edge of her desk across the room.

“Just until I fall asleep?”

“Alright, then.” 

He knows it is too good to be true when she is silent for a full minute. “Can you sing?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Well, Dad always sings to me to help me sleep,” she says. “So if you want me to fall asleep faster…”

Something about her voice is familiar. Which is strange, because he is reasonably sure he has never spent much time around tiny, Irish children. But...the accent is familiar, if a lot stronger.

There used to be an Irish woman. He would say she was a handler, except this woman was kind. She had gentle hands and soft words but was stern when she had to be. 

And she would sing to...Steve. She would sing to Steve when he was sick. An Irish lullaby. Her name was Sarah.

His voice is not designed for music. It’s too scratchy to carry the melody, but it is satisfactory. He does not remember all the words, and hums to the girl instead. She grins at him when he starts, and then settles. 

She relaxes into the music, and smiles just before she falls asleep.

Her bright, innocent smile stays, even when she’s asleep. It’s the last smile she has.

* * *

Bucky does not open his eyes at first. He does not want to risk giving himself away. Maybe if he stays still for long enough, they’ll leave him in peace just a little longer. 

But there are no sounds. No one is with him. A part of his mind knows that it could be a trap. Just because nobody’s with him, doesn’t mean nobody’s watching. 

But they would surely be able to tell the hitch in his breath as a door slams below him. Surely, if they were going to come in immediately, they would have done so as soon as they noticed it.

He opens his eyes. Bucky does not recognize anything.

No—wait. He should know where he is. The mattress and his duffel bag are the only furniture. That doesn’t mean much. He sits up, shoving the soft jacket he uses as a pillow aside. It’s wet from where he slept on it.

That means something. Hydra never let him sleep long, so he’s not with them anymore. Good. The open door gives him a visual of the living room, and his eye catches a plant in the living room. Theo’s spider plant.

He slumps against the wall and lets his breathing return to normal. He’s in the 4th floor apartment he’s renting from Ellie. Theo, a mechanic, lives on the third floor, and gave him the plant. Theo has a daughter. Lucas gets into fights and lives on the second with his parents. He’s in the apartment. 

He’s safe. 

He’s fine. Taking out the drug capsules hasn’t helped with that, but he’s fine. Better than he’s been in a long while.

It takes him 34 minutes to be sure, but eventually he folds the jacket up and gets up for the day. He moves the spider plant to the windowsill in his bedroom.

He showers—or, rinses off. He doesn’t actually have anything to wash his hair with. But he has clothes that are somewhat clean, so he can at least look like a normal person. He puts his gloves on.

The nutrient shake is somehow better when he drinks it from a small, beat up pot. He has to choke it down and it still tastes awful, but at least it’s fun to drink. He’s never been allowed to drink it like this. 

He rinses out the pot and leaves it to dry in the sink. Bucky runs through Theo’s directions to the corner store as he goes.

“Hello James,” Ellie says. She puts a bookmark in her paperback and leans back in her rocking chair.

“Morning.” It’s certainly not a good one. 

“Where are you headed off to this early?” She glances at the clock by the front door.

He follows her gaze and sure enough, it’s barely 5:30. “Theo told me where the corner store is. It’s probably not open yet, is it?”

“Not yet.” She studies him closely, taking in every little detail. “What do you need to get?”

Well fuck. That’s a good point. He’s got no idea what he even needs. He doesn’t remember the last time he cooked. Does he know how? He doesn’t even know the last thing he spent money on. “Just the essentials, I don’t know what’s good there yet.”

“I could put on a pot of coffee and give you some recommendations,” she suggests because she is an amazing woman. 

She leads him inside, and Bucky’s hit with how different their apartments are. His is practically bare compared to the memories and photos and books that line the room. She’s lived a life here.

“How are you feeling?” She asks like she already knows the answer.

“I’ve had better days,” he says. 

She at least seems pleased with the admission. “I have a guess as to why, and frankly, I hope I’m wrong.”

“What is it?”

She passes over a cup of coffee, bringing creamer and sugar, and sits down with her own. “I won’t put up with drugs here. There are kids around, and they don’t need to get mixed up in that. They’ll be the ones in trouble if you lead the cops here.””

Bucky blinks. That’s actually...a pretty accurate guess. “I’m not, ma’am. Or, not anymore. That’s why I left my old place.”

He can use this. It’s the perfect way to explain why he left without having to talk about it.

She nods, studying him for signs of lying. At last, she accepts it. “Good. So what you’re dealing with now is just withdrawals?”

Bucky nods. “I’m done with it.”

That's the end of it. She pulls out a small pad of paper from the drawer next to her. “Let’s get you all settled, then.”

Soon enough, she has Bucky out the door with a list of the staples she deems necessary. It includes things like eggs, flour, salt, sugar, rice, and various canned foods that he knows about. And...some things he’s never heard of. Ramen, apparently, is cheap and easy to make and isn’t too bad. It comes heavily recommended by Lucas, though, so Ellie says he might like it.

So he should be prepared for whatever this shopping trip will entail. At least, he’s better off than when he left this morning.

Still, nothing prepares him for the actual, hellish experience that is shopping.

Here is why Bucky’s not a fan:

The store itself is rather large, but it’s packed with cramped aisles and people. It’s hardly defensible and offers terrible sight lines of the rest of the store. The shelves go above his head and box him in with other shoppers and products. He has to walk around the perimeter of the store and look at all the possible obstacles before he can even begin to shop.

That’s a large task all on its own. Ellie didn’t tell him there are so many fucking options. Who the hell needs so many types of oatmeal? Is it better to have rolled oats, flat oats, instant, with flavorings, or without? There’s a box of stovetop rolled oats on sale, so he puts that in his basket and moves on. Except for a bag of coffee for Ellie, he moves through his list in this way, picking items based on price. 

He gets some frozen vegetables and frozen meat—which Ellie claims last longer and are easy to cook with than unfrozen. With his basket filling up with groceries, he gets confident. Bucky throws in some seasonings into his collection. He can put some in his rice, or eggs, or—whatever he wants. Who knows, maybe the tropical seasoning mix will make his nutrient shake taste better. Maybe some cinnamon? Both? It sure as hell won’t make it taste worse. 

And then he gets to the soaps. Why are there so many types of soaps for the same thing? And each of them advertise smelling differently, too. And all the shampoos say they’re for different types of hair—how is he supposed to know what his hair needs? It’s not like it’s in that damn care manual.

It should be. Maybe he’ll write his own manual with actually relevant information.

Fuck it, there’s a shampoo and conditioner that’ll make him smell like everlasting sunshine. He’s not sure what any of that means, but it’s only $2 so it goes in the basket. He picks the cheapest hand soap in the aisle and adds some dish soap—thankfully the least complicated.

He doesn’t know why the fuck it’s so green, but that’s very low on his priorities list.

The least expensive paper products go in the basket as well, and he’s finally ready to check out. At the last second, he throws in a newspaper. The cashier is clearly disinterested, and doesn’t look twice that he fumbles over the cash.

Something settles in him to know that no one here gives a shit what he’s doing. Bucky stood in front of the soaps for 15 minutes and nobody so much as commented.

Bags in hand, he goes back to the apartment. Ellie’s in her rocking chair, book in hand. She glances up as he opens the door. “Get everything you need?”

“Yes ma’am, thanks to you,” Bucky says.

“You’re the one who did it,” she says, looking over her glasses at him. She’s ready to argue with him to accept his own accomplishment.

It’s a really familiar look, thanks to Steve, so he drops it. At least he knows for damn certain he would have been fucked without Ellie’s list. 

He looks through the bags and carefully maneuvers them so he can reach inside one of them for a bag of coffee. Bucky hands it to Ellie. “I don’t want to be rude, but I noticed you were running low.”

She takes it, and for all his experience in reading people’s emotions, he can’t read her expression. “Thank you, James.”

“Not a problem,” he says.

She runs her thumb absently through her book’s pages, so Bucky makes a show of adjusting his groceries. “I should go take care of these.”

She watches him as she leaves, and Bucky can’t tell what she’s thinking.

He sets the newspaper aside and unloads the groceries. He’s sure Ellie would be appalled by how he puts them away, but it gets done. They’re all in the cabinet or the fridge and it’s done with. Now, the only thing left to do is cook with them.

Great. Especially considering he doesn’t actually have memories of cooking.

When Bucky thinks about it, maybe that’s for the best. If he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, how badly can it go?

There is a decently sized pot in one of the cabinets, and the stove works well enough, so he decides to make a package of whatever ramen is. The noodles are definitely strange, but the package says to put them in boiling water. So that’s what he does. Cooking is easy as fuck.

On a whim, he adds frozen broccoli and an egg into the water. The egg is...a little weird, but it’s alright. He grabs some seasonings and throws it into the pot—tropical seasoning blend, black pepper, garlic, and nutmeg. He adds the ramen flavoring package, shuts the burner off, and pours the whole thing into the beat up pot he’d left drying. 

It’s more of a soup than anything, with the broccoli, egg, and noodles adding texture. As far as taste goes, it’s really fucking weird...but not awful.

Actually, it’s the best thing he’s ever had.


	6. Information

“Hey, Buck?” Steve asks, looking through the mess on their little, wobbly table. 

Their apartment is so small that Bucky’s brushing his teeth on the other side of the apartment and can hear him perfectly fine. Still, he speaks up so that Steve’s bad ear will catch him. “Yeah?”

“What did you do with the paper?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and spit into the sink. “I put it right on the table, like always.”

Maybe if Steve didn’t leave his shit everywhere, he’d be able to find it. Living with him was all the fun he thought it would be, even if he didn’t realize how messy he was. Becca always called it his “artist’s brain” when he complained about it to her, but Bucky called it annoying.

“Are you sure?”

Bucky runs a final hand through his hair and comes to stand at his right side. His hand absently rests on Steve’s hip.

He picks up Steve’s sketchbook and pulls out yesterday’s paper. They have a system with the dames across the hall: they have the paper delivered to them, and when they’re through with it, pass it off to Steve and Bucky. 

“Oh,” Steve says.

He ruffles up Steve’s hair—or he means to. Actually, he calms his bed head down quite a bit. “Told you.”

Steve rolls his eyes. They both know Bucky doesn't mind all that much about the mess. “How’s the comic?”

“Don’t even get me started.” Bucky sits down at the table to lace up his boots. He just got another job moving boxes down at the docks because Steve’s commissions ran out, and the grocery store only pays so much. “I’m telling you, Stevie, yours are a lot better than whoever they’ve got doing it now.”

Whenever Steve has time, he always adds his own comics to the funny pages to give back to their neighbors. But recently, he’s been more focused on the actual articles. Hell, even Bucky’s reading more news stories than he used to. When even the papers are reporting that there are tensions in Europe, it’s time to pay attention.

“You love them too much to want to share them,” Steve says, grinning. He knows damn well half the reason Steve doodles on the side of the articles is to get Bucky to read them. He’s not wrong.

“The articles are so boring without your pictures,” Bucky complains. It makes him sound 12, but he doesn’t care—some of them are just awful.

Steve huffs, exasperated. His mouth does that twitching thing, which is Bucky’s signal that he’s moments away from going on a rant about how important it is to stay educated on world affairs and how the world’s events are all connected and it is inadequate to just pay attention to one aspect without considering other factors. 

Especially considering that the newspapers function as a way to entertain the masses, and to get the full story, they also have to supplement their news with other sources. Yes, Bucky has heard it before, and has it memorized.

“Even when it’s boring, I do end up reading it,” Bucky says. He just complains about it a lot more.

Steve starts organizing his pile on the table, which really just means shifting the mess around. “I’ll draw until I have to leave.”

Steve is working the register for the afternoon shift, and isn’t going to be done until the grocery store closes. As for Bucky, there’s a shipment arriving in an hour, and he and the boys at the docks have to unload that. After, he has an afternoon shift at the mechanic shop uptown.

Steve might talk about how rich people exploit workers for their own gain while paying inadequate wages, but they do care about their cars. And if Bucky can pretend to be friendly with them, they might even tip.

The boys—the ones at the docks and the shop—are talking about the possibility of a draft in the next year or so. And the way things are going in Europe...it’s looking more and more likely.

So Steve’s drawings...small as they are...they’re worth coming home to. They are worth holding close to his chest. So that if—when—things got bad, he knows there’s something good in the world. 

These moments are worth coming home to.

* * *

Bucky actually forgets about the newspaper. That is, until he wakes up the next morning and starts making oatmeal. As he’s waiting for the water to boil, he spots an article on one of the side panels: Public Demands Investigation after SHIELD Infodump Reveals Leaders to be Hydra

Holy shit. He turns off the burner and pulls the Sunday paper closer.

> After 3 helicarriers fell into the Potomac River 3 months ago and top secret Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (SHIELD) files were released onto the internet, the search for answers led to Captain America (Steve Rogers) and Black Widow (Natasha Romanoff). They claimed SHIELD was infiltrated by Hydra, a 20th century Nazi organization who was launching a project that could target their past, present, and future enemies. Known as Project Insight, Hydra was due to launch the helicarriers and immediately eliminate targets around the world. 
> 
> Many were hesitant to believe these claims, but information from the released SHIELD files verifies this claim. File 10.09835AQ documents the plan for Project Insight, and names several public figures as supporters, including 23 politicians. The file also refers to several unnamed figures, and implies that there are Hydra members at all levels of the government. This file and others are making the public question just how far Hydra’s infiltration goes, and what can be done about it. If there is one certainty within all of this, it is that the public will not stand with Hydra. (Continue to page 3 for more details, page 5 for updates on the investigation)

Bucky’s not sure how long he stands there before he flips through the next few pages. They’re all like that. No one knows what’s happening, except that apparently a Nazi group thought to be defeated in WW2 is not only alive and well, but has been thriving. Until it’s secrets were dumped on the internet, that is. They’re all screwed for the foreseeable future.

But for him...this is good.

It’s really good.

While Hydra members are worried about saving their own asses—and they always are—they don’t have time to regroup—they always do—and search for their runaway assassin. He has time.

He’s not sure what to do with it, but he’s got time to figure that out, too.

But first, he needs to know what the fuck is going on. As he’s reading the articles, there’s an advertisement at the back for a 2nd hand, refurbished electronics shop. It’s as good of a place to start as any. He writes it down and leaves without further ado.  


Three hours, two times getting lost, and an overly enthusiastic computer refurbisher later, Bucky has a laptop. Sure, he freezes when the woman starts talking about computer specs and brands and models, but she catches on pretty quickly. 

She shows him the older, less expensive laptops, and tells him what charger he needs. In short, without Molly, he would be so fucking lost. She even turns down the music when he flinches at an electric whirring noise. 

Amid her sales pitch on how she improved the computer, she lets slip that she’s struggling to make rent. So he “accidentally” drops a few $20 bills behind the counter when her back is turned, and overpays.

There’s something to be said for Hydra’s ability to blend in so well—all his stolen cash is legitimate, and indistinguishable from ordinary money. But he’ll know what their blood money was used for, and something within him settles at the thought.

He dumps the GPS trackers before even getting to the apartment, tossing them in an open taxi cab trunk when no one is looking. With any luck, the driver will think it was left behind by his passenger. And if the store cleric is working for Hydra, nice as she was, they won’t have any luck finding him.

He walks a perimeter of the blocks around the apartment building. He’s been sloppy, and he can’t afford that any longer.

Only once he’s certain there is nothing even hinting at Hydra in the neighborhood, he goes back to the apartment.

Hydra trained him with a basic understanding of electronics and the internet. And he observed even more from his handlers. And the one thing that got his handlers to talk more than anything was annoying computer programs. When they switched over to online data processing instead of paper, it was all anyone could talk about for months. At least all the complaining allowed him to pick up on tech developments. 

Molly saves the day once again with the instructions she’d helpfully slipped into the 2nd hand Wi-Fi box. It takes him a few tries to set it up right, but eventually he gets it.

Bucky sets up next to an outlet in the bedroom. He puts the jacket he uses as a pillow between him and the wall and gets to work. After making the laptop completely untraceable and securing the connection, he finally pulls up a search engine.

The last of the effects from the drugs are starting to wear off, so he doesn’t even make too many spelling mistakes. Well, he's still shaking, some, but it's tolerable.  


He spends his time researching, especially when his biggest commitments are watering his plant, keeping watch for Hydra activity, and saying hello to his neighbors when he sees them.

Recent news shows nothing more than the paper did, so he quickly gives up on that. As useful as it is for him to know what the public knows, it’s not what he’s looking for.

He finds the SHIELD files easier than he expected. It turns out, Steve and Natasha Romanoff really did just put everything online. It’s a lot to search through.

T he records go back to scans of the first SHIELD mission reports up until the present. It’s a massive amount of information, files upon files upon files. Honestly, the ability to even upload that much information at once is astounding.

He searches through the financial data, first. If there is anything that is hard to truly hide, it’s money. Most of it looks like harmless, genuine data. Actually, until the first whisperings of Operation Paperclip, it all seems genuine. But after…

That’s when the money starts to disappear.

It seems to vanish...until Bucky connects the money trail to the establishment of different SHIELD bases. When the money disappears, a new base pops up.

Or sometimes, when the money disappears, equipment is leased out to another base and someone important dies. He pointedly doesn’t think about that.

He will. But not now.

The falsified financial reports create a complicated trail. Bucky’s not going to confirm or deny hacking into bank records to trace it. But eventually, he connects the dots, and comes up with a list of plases. 

Of course, he memorizes them—he’s not going to leave a paper trail. Unlike Hydra, he’s smart about it.

T he internet is so helpful. He finds something called Google Earth. Which, first of all, is really fucking cool. And secondly, when he looks up the coordinates of the false trail bases, most are wilderness.

Except...no. A base in a forest has trees that are too uniform to be wild. A desert base has tire marks. There’s one where the mountainside is chipped away and is almost perfectly smooth. 

The more he checks, the more he finds like this. Sure, some are just false trails and the money leads somewhere else. But others...it’s just too perfect to be natural.

Bases in cities are harder. But he traces the ownership of the buildings, and most of them have some affiliation with members of Hydra. Too many to be a coincidence. He memorizes those in a separate category.

The closest Hydra base was recently exposed for being just that, with all employees arrested. There is nothing substantial within a 10 mile radius, at least.  


He opens a new window, and looks up Steve Rogers. Unsurprisingly, most of it has to do with the Hydra investigations, but there are older things, too. Interviews. His cursor hovers over a link.

Does he want to know who Steve is, now? 

Would Steve want him to know who he is?

Bucky doesn’t have the answers to either of those questions.

He stands up to stretch, and looks at the tiny clock on the laptop screen. Thursday 3:16 AM. September, 3, 2014. Huh. He looks at the recipt for his computer. It's been at least a week since he got it. He's been sitting here for a few days straight, at least.

And even that...when was the last time he ate? Sure, he’s been doing a lot on his laptop, but it’s necessary. He can’t afford to be in the dark any longer.

Well...he hasn’t done any early-morning sweeps in a few days. He does a sweep twice a day, but he’s been making it appear to line up with the times people are up and about and going to work. He widens his route today.

There is nothing unusual happening, but at least it’s daylight when he gets back.

He makes some of the stove top oatmeal, and it takes a while to cook. He doesn’t want to start the interview yet, because then he’ll have to interrupt it to finish making his breakfast. 

It’s a good time to shower. Bucky turns the water as hot as it’ll go. The sunshine shampoo and conditioner end up smelling so good that he washes his hair twice. After, he stays under the warm water until his oatmeal is ready. He towels off his hair and puts on clean clothes.

There’s a recommended recipe on the back of the container, so he adds sugar, butter, and nutmeg. He doesn't have cinnamon or chocolate, but if nutmeg can make even his shake taste better, it’ll do the job just fine.

He considers going out to buy some proper bowls, but nothing is open yet. The beat up pot will do, and he brings it back to the bedroom. Finally, he runs out of excuses. He clicks the link.

It’s a recording of a live interview, and it starts with a montage of Steve fighting creatures with weapons that glow blue and have grey, armored flesh. 

Overtop, the narrator says, “Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America, is a World War 2 hero and public icon. He crashed a Hydra plane in the arctic, saving tens of thousands of lives. It is believed that the serum that transformed him into Captain America allowed him to survive, and he made his first public appearance in the new century during the Chitauri attacks on New York last year.”

It cuts to Steve who looks uncomfortable in a blue button up and khaki pants sitting opposite a reporter in a fake living room. The reporter is wearing a navy blue suit and brown shoes, and he doesn't look like he could lift more than 30 pounds without being exhausted. He is a low level threat.  


A banner appears beneath the two of them, labeling the reporter as Tristain Smith. “Captain Rogers, it’s a pleasure to have you with us.”

Steve smiles good-naturedly. “It’s good to be here.”

“Before we begin, I have to wonder, did you ever imagine something like this happening?”

“I never really thought too much about the future when I was a kid. My best friend, Bucky, did, but so much of my life was about surviving and just making it until the next year that I didn’t want to get my hopes up. And during the war…” Steve pauses for a moment. “We had to think of something to get us through it all, but I just wanted to get me and my men through the next day.”

“That’s something a lot of soldiers can relate to.”

“Yeah,” Steve pauses. “I talked to a lot of vets when I woke up, when I was trying to catch up on everything I missed. And knowing that other people have experienced what you have was something that seems to resonate with people.”

Tristan Smith nods pensively. “When you were catching up on things, what’s something you were surprised by?”

“Everything. There was so much that was new and different that it got hard to sift through it all. I’m still learning things.” Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corner, just a little bit. “Just the other day, I discovered Vine.”

Tristan’s eyes go wide and he laughs. “Really? What do you think?”

“Oh, they’re hilarious.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and Bucky is sure he’s having fun with this.

A part of Tristan’s enthusiasm fades. It must come with the realization that he’s actually interviewing Steve Rogers. “How do you mean?”

Steve grins, mixing the publicity facade into it. “It’s people making short videos to get other people to laugh. I don’t see anything wrong with that, do you?”

The guilt trip works. “Of course not.”

“Everything is so much more connected these days. Back in the war, we used to wait weeks for letters. I never even left New York City until basic training,” Steve says.

Tristan’s eyes glimmer with something predatory. “Who did you write letters to?”

Steve catches on immediately. “You want me to say I had a sweetheart, don’t you?”

“Well, there have always been rumors about your relationship with Peggy Carter. He makes a show of shrugging. 

“I believe her title is still Agent Carter." Steve corrects. “We’re close friends, and I have great deal of respect for her, but nothing serious happened between us.” He levels Tristan with a disappointed look. “And it wouldn’t matter if there was anything going on. Agent Carter’s accomplishments have nothing to do with her relationship to me.”

He glues a smile on, clearly disappointed by his answer. “Clearly.”

Issue resolved for the moment, Steve moves on. “To answer your question, I mostly wrote letters to Bucky’s amily.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” and there’s a smile that’s just Steve. Not Captain America at all. “His family always treated me like their own, especially after my mother died. During the war, we both wanted them to know how we were doing and that we were safe.”

“I’m sure it helped that you were Captain America.” 

“It did. We were lucky that our families could see us in the newsreels and check for themselves. A lot of people weren’t that fortunate.”

“You know,” Tristan starts. “There were never a lot of interviews with all of the Howling Commandos together.”

“That’s interesting, because we sure recorded a lot of them. Most of the time it was just audio. If I remember correctly—” The serum gave him a perfect memory. “—a lot of what we did wasn’t released because they didn’t like how we deferred questions to Gabe and Jim.”

“They being?” Tristan prods.

“Sometimes the SSR, sometimes the US Army, sometimes the reporters themselves. Our images were all heavily monitored because part of our job was to boost morale to the Allies and the folks back home. And unfortunately, that meant Gabe and Jim were often sidelined because to make us seem more “patriotic” to support the cause.”

“I see.”

“I know both of them have spoken out extensively about their experiences, and I’m glad they were finally recognized.”

His discomfort is subtle, but it’s there. Clearly, this wasn’t how he expected this interview to go. He clears his throat. “Now, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but recently historians recovered the tape recording of the last interview done with Bucky Barnes.”

Steve just freezes for a long second. There’s something in his eyes that Bucky does not like at all. His voice is quiet when he says, “What?”

“Yes, after the war, the wire recording was turned over to the SSR, and it’s just recently been released to the Library of Congress. We have it queued up, if you’ll turn your attention to the screen to your right.”

Steve doesn’t. He stares at the coffee table between him and Tristan, as if wondering how much effort it would take to flip it into Tristan’s couch. At least, that’s what Bucky’s contemplating. “It’s been a pleasure, Tristan, but I’m afraid I have another appointment.”

Tristan freezes, then, as if he hadn’t predicted this outcome. 

Bucky pauses the video. A little banner appears at the top of the screen that says to click on it for more information. He does. He’s over Tristan and his antics.

It brings him to a different page. The headline reads, “Found: last interview with Howling Commando, Bucky Barnes.”

He doesn’t scroll past the headline. Just below it reads, “After extensive restoration of World War 2 era wire recorders, historians found the last interview of Bucky Barnes before his death. A Howling Commando and Captain America’s childhood friend, Sergeant Barnes proved his bravery in the European theater of WW2.”

He doesn’t scroll.

He of all people is aware of how easily memories can be tampered with. Even the ones he’s gotten might not be real. 

But this? This is concrete. It’s real and it’s tangible. Sure, he could have lied, but surely he can figure that out easily enough. 

Still...what right does he have to this? He barely remembers being him before Hydra. He certainly can’t be him now. The interview was a still life drawing of someone who’s long gone. 

Bucky now? What right does he have?

He doesn’t scroll. Actually, he closes the laptop all together. 


	7. Normalcy

There’s a little coffee shop two blocks west of the apartment. He passes it whenever he goes to the little market—considerably easier now that he knows what to get—but he’s never gone inside. It looks nice.

And...well...he meant go on his surveillance route and then go shopping. But he’s just about done anyways.

He steps inside.

A little bell rings above the door. It’s very anticlimactic.

He forces the tension in his shoulders to ease as he takes in the exits by way of habit. There is a back room that probably has a door leading to the alley and units for rent above it. 7 customers sit at the tables, and 3 more are waiting in line. None of them pose a significant threat. 

He gets in line behind a 5’7” young man with 4 piercings per ear and tattoos that stick out from under his flannel shirt. He appears to be Latino. He’s writing in a spiral notebook with a blue pen and he’s left handed. The man’s eyes are dark brown when he turns around with a confused look. “Yes?”

Shit, he’s staring. He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, sir, where’d you get your tattoos?”

Instantly he relaxes. It’s strange how he can be bouncy while he’s standing still, but it happens. “Oh, it’s all good. I got them done at this place on campus when I got accepted to the journalism program at Brooklyn College. I can give you her Instagram if you want, my artist was great.”

He shrugs. “That’s ok, I’m still not sure what style I want.”

“Are you going to get one?”

“Maybe,” he fiddles with his glove. “I was thinking about doing a star.”

“Like, a star star? Or a Captain America star?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” Even though it’s a cover, there’s an idea. His serum would probably dissolve the ink, though. They move up in line. “What are you getting? I’ve never been here before?”

The man’s eyes go wide. “Really? I love it here. A lot of people come here to do homework and stuff. You should come back.”

It really is a nice place. And it’s close enough to the apartment he can come after his rounds. Or, he could come before so he has something to drink during them. Hell, he can do both. “Yeah, I think I will.”

"They make a great cafe con leche here, I get it every time.” He looks Bucky over and adds, “And a lot of people just think it’s coffee and milk, but it’s really closer to espresso, so it’s more of a latte. But it’s so much better.”

“Right.” He’s not sure what the difference is, but evidently it’s an important one. “I think I have to try it.”

The man’s grin is blinding as he steps up to the register. The woman taking his order raises an eyebrow like she’s just daring him to get something different. He doesn’t, and she writes his usual on the cup. “Hey, Max. How’s school coming?”

“Great! We started classes the other day, and you know how that goes. We won’t be doing anything important for another couple of weeks.” Max closes his notebook to get his money out.

She delays putting in the order. She has long, dark hair and she’s wearing a floral t shirt under her apron. Her name tag says Liv. “But hey, you’ve got your senior thesis to start, right?”

“Yeah.” His enthusiasm drops just a little bit. “I’ve got to start planning that. Hey, have you talked to Zoe, yet?”

“Sure haven’t,” she says brightly, not inviting any more discussion.

Max pays and steps aside, but doesn’t go all the way to the spot they’re supposed to pick their drinks up. He opens his notebook again and starts tapping the back of his pen against his lip.

Olivia turns to him. “What can I get you?”

“Cafe con leche, please,” he says.

She looks knowingly at Max, who just waves. “Max got to you already, huh?”

He shrugs with a smirk. “You don’t like it?”

She writes his order on the cup. “It tastes fine, but mochas are better. I can make it the same way, but with chocolate.”

“I’ll have to try it next time.”

“You’ll love it. Can I get a name for the order?”

“James.” He pays in cash and dumps the change in the tip jar.

He and Max step to the side to wait for their coffees and let the next person in line order.

“So, journalism?”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating. See, a lot of people don't realize just how much journalists influence what people believe, it's incredible. A well written story that's put out at the right time could literally change legislation, public opinion, and even trials. Like with that data dump a few months ago, all the articles about it made people start to get worried and brought attention it, where it could have just slipped under the radar. And...sorry, I like talking about it.”

Liv calls their drinks out, and they step forward to get them. 

"No worries.” He takes a sip from the paper cup and…”Holy shit.”

Max nods approvingly. “Are you staying?”

He checks the time with the clock—shaped like a coffee mug—in the corner. “Next time. I have to get some errands done.”

“Next time. It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too.” And to his surprise, it was.

* * *

It’s only luck that keeps him from dropping all his groceries as he opens the door into the apartment. 

Ellie looks up as he comes in, reading a paperback in her chair. She puts it down with a huff. “Honestly, you could have just knocked and I would have let you in.”

Dismissing the obvious security risk that poses, Bucky rearranges his bags in his arms and smiles at her. “And disturb your reading, ma'am? Never. How’s the book?”

She turns over the cover to show him. This one is a well-muscled man on a pirate ship holding a woman in a flowing dress in his arms. “Good, but I don’t think you’ll like this one.”

“That’s fair,” he says. She’d let him borrow the last one she read, which is a romance with time travel and sword fights. Sure, the fights weren’t at all accurate, but it was still pretty badass. “Claire got kidnapped again.”

“For the second or third time?”

“Second, you mean she gets kidnapped again?”

“Sorry,” she says, but she’s not very apologetic about it. “It happens a lot.”

He huffs. “I can see that.” He shuffles his groceries in his arms again.

“What are you doing on Thursday?”

Hm...let him check his busy busy schedule. “Nothing, why?”

“I host dinner every week if you’d like to join us.”

He’s aware. There’s always the smell of something cooking on Thursday nights, and all the buildings’ tenants come when they’re off work. Lucas and Charlie, Theo’s teenage daughter, come over most days after school and help cook Thursday dinners. “I’d be honored.”

“Good. Come over at 4:30 and you can help cook,” she says.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

Bucky knocks on the door Thursday evening at 4:29. 

Ellie answers it, and looks him over approvingly. “You look nice.”

Hell yeah, he does. He washed his blue, long sleeved button down and jeans just for this. The sink worked better than expected, and he was lucky the corner store carried laundry detergent.

“So do you,” Bucky says, because it’s true. She’s wearing a black capri pants, a purple blouse, and gold earrings. 

It’s only his enhanced hearing that lets him notice a teenage girl whispering, “Do you think that’s him?”

Lucas whispers back, “I hope so. It took long enough.”

“We’re just about to get started,” Ellie says, leading him inside. With a flourish, she steps out of the little hallway and into the kitchen-dining-living room area. “This is James, he lives on the 4th floor.”

His boots are already unlaced, and he sets them by the front door. Ellie’s approval is evident even though she doesn’t say a word.

“What are we doing, exactly?”

The apartment is as it was the last time he was here with a noticeable difference: there’s an extra chair at the table and there’s a slight, dark skinned girl surrounded by papers. If the graphs, calculator, and general sense of confusion she has is anything to go off of, she’s doing homework. Her hair is tied back, but appears to be thick and curly.

She looks up at him and grins. “I’m Charlie. Ellie says it’s a tragedy that our generation—” She gestures to Lucas, who’s halfheartedly reading a book. “Doesn’t know how to cook, so she has us helping out with Thursday dinners.”

“Unless you’re doing homework so keep working on that.” Ellie says to her. She takes the book from Lucas. “You’ve been on that page for 20 minutes, how about you revisit it later?”

He nods and runs a hand through his curly hair. “How can I help?”

“Start on the meatballs,” she says, already pulling ingredients out of the fridge. To be honest, Bucky didn’t know a fridge could have so much in it. His certainly doesn’t. She turns to him. “Let’s have you start on vegetables. Are you good with a knife?”

He follows Lucas’ lead and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. He has to focus to hide the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’m good enough.”

“These ones are washed already.” She directs him to get out a cutting board and starts putting vegetables in a pile, putting a red onion and garlic cloves to the side. “You should do those ones last.” She adds a knife to the pile, and with that, goes to sit with Charlie.

Bucky starts chopping the celery. He ignores how it’s nice to have a knife back in his hand, and focuses on making each slice an eight of an inch thick.

“Now, what can we do with these problems?” Ellie asks. She picks up a paper to examine it, and Bucky doesn’t miss the flash of confusion she attempts to mask.

“Cry,” Charlie mutters in a deadpan. 

Lucas huffs from where he’s mixing ground beef and spices and things in a bowl. He leans over to him. “Her physics teacher gave them a bunch of problems they should have already learned, and they’ve got a test on it next week.”

“We just started, how can they expect us to know all this? Isn’t that their job?”

“Well, they assume you learned it the first time,” Lucas says.

“Yeah, in all the other physics classes I’ve taken.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “And you’re in 8th grade, you’re not even in physics.”

“Are you two going to fight again?” Ellie raises her eyebrows at the two of them, and they settle down. “Come on, let’s go over this problem together.”

She sighs and reads the problem. “If a cannonball is launched horizontally from the top of an 80 meter cliff, how long will it take to reach the ground? Honestly, when will we ever need to know this?”

Ellie pats the side of her hand. “Let’s just try it.”

But Charlie puts her head down on the table. “We’ve been doing these problems for an hour, why can’t we skip it?”

“You need a good grade in this class, remember?”

Bucky moves on to dicing bell peppers and absently does the math. “It should be 4 seconds.”

Charlie blinks, and rifles through her papers for the answers. “How’d you do that?”

He certainly didn’t count on explaining it. “Your equation is...what? Distance equals the initial velocity times time, multiply that by half of the acceleration times the time squared?”

Lucas looks at him like he grew another head. Honestly, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen to him. “You did that without an equation?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice, I guess I use shortcuts instead of the full equation every time.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how good of a teacher I am, but I can help you, if you want.”

Charlie lets out a short laugh. “Actually?”

Ellie gets up and shoos him away from the vegetables. “You’re probably better than her actual teacher. And certainly better than I.”

She moves away, muttering about how she was an English teacher, not a math teacher. She compliments Lucas on the meatballs’ progress as she takes Bucky’s place at the cutting board. Lucas snickers a little, and it earns him a fond thwack with a dish towel before she starts laughing too. Bucky’s not sure why it’s fascinating, but he files it away.

He takes the extra chair next to Charlie and pulls her paper towards him so he can see it. At the top, she wrote Charlotte Evans. She looks at him expectantly, and he thinks through what he did. And how the fuck to explain it. “Let’s draw it out.”

She erases her previous tries and draws a little cliff, a line for the cannon’s path, and a tiny cannonball launcher. It even has a little fuse and everything. “OK?”

“That’s good. Now, what can we get from the problem?”

The variables are put alongside the picture, and those go where they should in the equation. Before long, they have the equation solved and it turns out to 4.

"You were right,” Charlie says, astonished. “How’d you do it without a calculator?”

“I told you, practice.”

“What, launching cannonballs horizontally off of 80 foot cliffs?” She asks. “Are vertical launches a different department?”

Shit, this is when he has to decide on a cover. He’s thought of ideas, but he really should have settled on one before now. “I, uh, did some special ops and I guess they needed me to be good at physics.”

Lucas slows where he’s forming the meatballs. “You were in the military?”

“I was in the Army, but I got moved to a different team.”

“Where’d you serve?” Ellie asks. 

Uh…World War 2? Around the world completing covert assassinations? Neither of those are very good options. ”I think that might be classified.”

Lucas nods, understanding. “My dad was in the Navy, and he isn’t allowed to talk about specifics either.”

The way Ellie’s lips tighten says otherwise. It was probably a choice. And a good one, too. Bucky doesn’t even want to know the specifics of his own service, and he’s not a kid.

“Well, however you learned it, I’m glad you know how to do this,” Charlie says.

It’s a strange way of thinking about it. 

That even after everything he’s done, he can at least help a kid with her homework and chop up celery. Granted, he’d rather do it another way, and there are probably easier ways to learn how to chop fucking celery. 

But at least he’s here.

* * *

Theo’s mother, Victoria, arrives at 6:15 carrying a tupperware container of chocolate chip cookies. After kissing Lucas on the head and hugging Ellie, she announces,“These are for after dinner.” 

She shoots a fond look towards Lucas and Charlie, who is still at the table. Luckily, she’d picked up horizontal projectiles well enough that they could move on to a different problem set. “How’s the studying coming?”

Charlie genuinely smiles, and it makes the whole room brighter. “Great, we only have a few more of these to do tonight.”

She comes around the table to look at the growing pile of completed work. Victoria’s hand squeezes her shoulder. “These are amazing, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” She fiddles with her pencil. “I still have a lot to do, but James helped me understand it better.”

At once, everyone seems to remember that he’s sitting next to her. 

Theo’s mother recovers the fastest and holds out her hand to him. “We haven’t officially met, I’m Victoria.”

He’s not surprised when she has a firm grip. Her oversized Navy sweatshirt and jeans are casual, but her socks match her outfit perfectly and she’s wearing light makeup around her eyes: she’s very put together and definitely not someone to fuck with. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

"Lucas told us a lot about you.” Victoria moves to help Ellie in the kitchen, her hand brushing Lucas’ arm in hello. “David, my husband, should be getting home soon. He had a staff meeting after school today.”

“He’s a teacher?” It certainly explains the massive amounts of work he does. Sometimes Bucky passes him in the hallway and he’s carrying ungodly amounts of papers.

“Yeah, he teaches history at the high school.”

“He’s the best,” Charlie leans over and says. “I had him freshman year and my friends and I loved it.”

"He cares about what he does,” Victoria says. She side eyes Charlie’s paper, as if her physics teacher will be able to feel it from here.

Ellie starts mixing the vegetables in with the spices and a warm feeling settles over Bucky. “You kids are lucky to have such hardworking parents.”

Charlie and Lucas exchange a look that Bucky can’t decipher, but Lucas smiles and says, “We know.”

"So, James, what do you do?” Victoria asks. 

"I help out with the security of a building nearby, but it’s just temporary for now.”

“What made you want to do it?”

Oh, he’s supposed to have a reason? Well, shit. “It’s familiar, I guess. It’s easy to fall back on until I figure something out.”

"I’m sure whatever you decide will be perfect for you.” She moves away to open a can of tomatoes. 

"Did I do this right?” Charlie gestures at a problem towards the end of the sheet.

The picture is right and she matched the variables with their symbols and substituted them all right, but, “You can cancel these two numbers out, so you end up dividing these two.”

“Oh,” she erases it and does it right. “Like this?”

He shoots her a smile. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

“Really?”

He takes her pencil and draws a little star with a circle around it next to the answer.

There’s a knock at the door and Lucas answers it. Theo’s grin is clear in his voice. “I found him on the street, can we keep him?”

Charlie chuckles. “Lucas and I tried to bring home a cat like that years ago, and now it’s all my dad and David do.”

“You’ll never live it down, will you?”

“Nope.” She sighs and waves to David and her dad. “I don’t know, though, it’s an inside joke now.”

As David, Theo, and Lucas come through the little entryway, a dozen conversations erupt at once. Ellie exasperatedly scolds them for shoving each other as they take off their shoes. David starts on about what a student did today. Theo congratulates Charlie on her physics homework. 

Ellie’s little apartment is full of people talking and teasing each other. It almost seems to let go of its tenseness.

Or maybe that’s just Bucky. 

There was a time when his handlers were testing how long he could survive without food or water and still perform. They tested his motor coordination by having him scale buildings and fight hand-to-hand. Logic tests. There were accuracy tests and physical strength tests. He made it 8 days of hard training. 11 days of subpar performance

He could feel his body depleting his muscle mass for energy, then replacing those same cells. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t force his body to relax, couldn’t force his heart rate to slow

Eventually, his handlers deemed his performance suboptimal enough to give him water.

He’s never felt relief that palpable before. Every glorious sip was perfect.

This—the laughter, the people, the tangible friendship between them—was perfect.

Theo claps him on the shoulder, and Bucky forces down the flinch. “Hey man, how's it going?”

“Great. I haven’t killed my plant yet,” Bucky says. “It’s got a great spot on the window sill.”

Charlie and Lucas exchange an amused look. “There’s two of them now,” she whispers, and he tries to hide his laughter.

“Come on,” Theo says to her. “Let’s put your stuff away so we can start.”

Bucky helps them clear the table as David and Victoria start getting plates out. Everyone moves around each other so naturally, getting plates and bowls and drinks and bringing things to the table. 

Theo opens a bottle of wine David brought and starts pouring for the adults. It’s slightly red, but definitely not poisoned based on how when Lucas sneaks a sip, he’s only met with a reprimand.

Everyone seems to be involved with a different conversation. Charlie and Lucas are debating who’s going to win a soccer game for their school. David and Theo somehow get involved, and take an entirely different side. Victoria and Ellie about a book they’re both reading, which apparently has a cliffhanger. Somehow in all the shuffle, Bucky gets a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine.

David turns to him as everyone gravitates towards their seat. “So James, where are you from?”

“Brooklyn actually.” He follows Charlie’s lead and waits for everyone to sit down before eating. “I got into the Army a few years out of high school and kept going from there.”

Victoria, Ellie, and Theo exchange a look at that. Bucky’s unsure which part caught their attention.

“Oh, really?” David leans back in his chair and gestures with his glass towards Lucas, who is across frm Charlie. “I’m sure my son already told you I was in the Navy.”

“How long was your tour?”

“I just did one, but it was too long.”

“Me too, mine was a lifetime.”

They share a loaded look which Bucky was pretty sure means they commiserate. On what? He’s got no clue, but he grins and shoves David lightly in the shoulder. As everyone sits down and starts eating, their respective conversations pick back up.

“Victoria says you’re a teacher?”

“Yeah” David twirls his pasta on his fork. “I never would have imagined it, but I went to college on the G.I. Bill and got my teaching degree. What are you going to do?”

He shrugs. “Security, for now, but I don’t know what I’ll do permanently.

David nods, understanding. It’s empathetic. “I didn’t know either. A lot of the people I served with went into SHIELD or the CIA, but I was done with that kind of life. Probably for the best with everything going on.”

Bucky takes a bite of the pasta. It’s so fucking good. “What did you do in the Navy?”

“I was a Cryptologic Technician,” he says officially. “Which means everything about my job is still classified.

Secrecy, at least, he gets. “Mine too. I did spec ops and…” He forces a chuckle. “I’m not even supposed to know the specifics.”

“Yeah, the service will do that to you,” David says. “But, uh, I’ve been lucky to have so many good people support me. You have something like that?”

“Doesn’t everyone spend their lives searching for it?”

He rests his hand on his shoulder and nods in understanding. “How long have you been home?”

Bucky shrugs. “A few months.”

His hand squeezes, then drops to his side. “It does get easier, you know.”

He forces a smile David shifts uncomfortably so he changes the subject. “You know what I’ve been wanting to learn about?”

David immediately leans in. “Yeah, what’s that?”

“What’s Vine?”

The adults groan good naturedly while the kids practically jump out of their seats. Their smiles grow bigger. “You don’t know what Vine is?”

David rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You don’t know what you’ve started.”

He never gets an explanation for what Vine is, but by the end of the night, he’s laughed more than he has in years. And no one can take it from him.


	8. Future

After completing his rounds, he gets confirmation that Liv has excellent taste: the little coffee shop makes a delicious mocha. It’s not cold just yet, but he’s going to have to look for a winter coat soon. But for now, the drink keeps him warm. 

He gets out his key for the front door, and Charlie calls out, “James!”

He  spins. A cursory scan of the surrounding street reveals no apparent threats, only Charlie not even looking both ways before crossing the street. So why the hell is she yelling? He waves at her.

She bounds up the few steps to the front door. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here. Can you help me with physics?”

“Yeah, when?”

She gives a sheepish shrug. “Now, if you can? I know you’re probably busy.”

His mind goes to the unnatural amount of time he’s spent watching Vines. “Don’t worry about it.”

"Great,” she says, like she wasn’t sure she’d get this far. “Um, Lucas is helping Victoria our today at her store, but we usually go over to Ellie’s to do our homework if we’re not working. Can you come?”

“Sure,” he says. He takes a sip of his mocha and unlocks the door, holding it open for her.

Ellie’s front door is already unlocked and Charlie slips off her shoes as she comes in. He quickly unties his boots with one hand, the other holding the mocha to his chest.

“Hey, Ellie,” Charlie says. “Look who I found.”

She looks up from her armchair by the window. “Hello, you two.”

“Your door’s unlocked,” he says.

“Yes, I know.” She raises an eyebrow at him.

Point taken. Charlie is already pulling out her work when he gets to the table. Their backs are to Ellie, which she probably considers rude, but these are their seats. “What are we working on today?”

“Significant figures.” She looks at the papers blankly. Hopelessly, she writes her name at the top of the page. 

He feels the same. And if that’s not a sure way to tell that whatever significant figures are, it’s useless, he doesn’t know what is. “Alright. So what do we know about them so far?”

Charlie flips through her notes. “It helps with measurements.”

“Measurements,” Bucky says. So maybe they’re not as useless as he thinks. It’s a very big maybe. “What else?”

“And it involves rounding.” She huffs in frustration. “That’s it, that’s all Mr. Conan told us!”

“That’s not fair. But let’s start with the problems and see if we can figure it out, hm?”

Reluctantly, she reads through the problem. “It’s just a horizontal launch.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you know how to do those,” he says. 

And she does. Really well, actually. It just took a little bit of explaining to get there, but now she’s got it. Charlie draws the picture, labels it, and plugs the variables into the equation. It’s solved in less than 5 minutes. Only last week it would have taken her a whole lot more frustration.

“That’s right,” he says. “Now let’s try and figure out where the significant figures come in. What’s different about this problem than the other ones?”

She reads over the problem again. And again. “Nothing, it’s the exact same. It just says ‘use significant figures’ at the end.”

“It’s probably got something to do with the numbers, right? Because you said it involved measurements.”

“Yeah,” she says. “This decimal place is shorter for the time, but what does that have to do with anything?”

In his experience? The smallest little details and offhand comments turn out to be the most important. “You said it involved founding, too, right?”

“So I…” She trails off, going back through the problem. “So I round it to the same place as the short one?”

“Looks like it,” Bucky says. God, he hopes this is right. And if it’s not, Mr. Conan is going to have some explaining to do because it’s the only thing that makes sense based on the information he gave them.

It could be a test. Maybe Mr. Conan wants to trick them? He’ll fail the students that don’t get it right or give them detention or get them suspended?

Or maybe Mr. Conan was lying about it being about rounding and gave Charlie false information. 

Or—

Charlie’s arm brushes his and he jumps up. His hand flies to catch her hand, stopping just short of drawing the knife he keeps in his sleeve.

“James.” Ellie says. 

He releases Charlie immediatly.  


She’s out of her chair, book abandoned on the floor. Despite how alarm she is, her mouth is set firmly. “James.”

Charlie is staring at him, eyes wide. Frozen. Startled.

He blinks once. Let’s his hand drop to his side. He clears his throat. “I'm sorry."

He takes his seat again, focusing on keeping his breathing calm. Charlie scoots away form him, just in case. Ellie’s eyes don’t leave him for the rest of the night. 

* * *

Theo pops his head in an hour later. He catches sight of Charlie and grins. “Hey, you ready to come help with dinner?”

“Yeah, I’m almost done.” She puts her pencil down. It’s been going non-stop, getting into an easy rhythm. Sure, sometimes she got them wrong, and they had to go through it again. But at least she knew how to figure it out. “Thanks James.”

He shakes his head. “You’re the one who did it.”

Theo shoots him a look he can’t read. “You’re welcome to come, too, if you want.”

Ellie speaks up from her armchair. “I actually have some paperwork to go over with him.”

Bucky doesn’t let his surprise show. It’s the first he’s heard about it, so he'd be willing to guess it has nothing to do with paperwork. “She’s right. Next time, maybe. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Theo says graciously. He looks between the two of them, but appears to accept it.

Theo and Charlie leave, and she starts telling him about her day. His roaring laughter echoes down the stairwell.

Ellie takes a seat at the dining room table. There are 7 of them that sit around the table on Thursday nights, and she usually takes the head of the table by mutual agreement. But now, she sits across from him in Theo’s seat. 

She doesn’t get any paperwork, only looks steadily at him. “How many weapons do you have on you?”

He blinks. “Two.” There’s one up his left sleeve and another in his right sock.

“Why?”

Um, truth be told, it was unfathomable to go around unarmed. “I have reason to believe there might be someone trying to track me down.”

That clearly wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Ellie sighs. “For the spec ops jobs you did in the Army?”

“Yes. They might be—”

Ellie holds up her hand. “I have a feeling the less I know the better.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

“You work in security, right?” He nods and she pauses. Her hand absently runs over the old watch on her left hand. “You have to make the safety of everyone in this building a priority, understand?”

“I already do,” he says.

It takes her a long minute of silence, but eventually, Ellie says, “I won’t put my friends in danger, James. I’ve had too many people die on me.”

“I won’t ask you to. If they find me, I’ll leave.”

“Thank you.” She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’ve known a lot of people like you in my life. And trust me, it’s been a long one.”

He smiles gently. Tries his best to make his eyes soften. “I don't want to put any of you in danger. Although you could probably take down anyone that tries to start something.”

She rolls her eyes and waves a finger at him. It’s a fond gesture. “You are too young to be smart with me, young man.”

He leans back in his chair, and gives a low laugh. His body remembers how to be charming better than he thought. “How can I not be with someone like you?”

“Stop distracting me.” She bats her hand, and laughs in spite of herself. It gets rid of her teary eyes, which is what he wanted in the first place.

He puts on an ultra-serious face, but his eyes crinkle at the corner. 

She takes a moment to collect herself. “My father was in the European theater of World War 2, and my friends fought in Vietnam. I’ve had students struggle with whatever was going on in their lives. I’ve spent too long watching the people I love hurt those around them because of their own pain.”

“What happened earlier…”

“It might happen again.” There’s no room for argument, but no lack of kindness either. She reaches across the table and covers his right hand with her own. “I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, but we have to make a plan in case something like that happens.”

He turns his hand over and squeezes hers lightly. “What are you thinking?”

“Until you know you won’t try and pull a knife on someone again, I don’t want you alone with Charlie or Lucas,” she says.

He nods. “That’s fair.”

“Try to catch it when you drift off like that,” Ellie says. “Focus on the physical things around you.”

It’s...a good plan. He can do that. “Alright. Would it help if I left when I do? Take a walk or something?”

Pride shines through her eyes. “Yes, I think it would.”

Bucky’s silent for a moment. “How did they get through it?”

“They had to face it. It’s the only way to move forward.” Ellie shrugs.   


He thinks of his past—what he knows about his past. “I don’t know how to do that.”

She says nothing, and they sit in silence for a long while. 

* * *

He doesn’t watch his interview right away. He has other ways to spend his time.

Tracing Hydra’s cash flow is really simple, actually. All it takes is some reading between the lines about what exactly is being transferred, and suddenly he has access to Hydra’s account.

Now, what to do with it?

He sends some of it through complicated routes that end up going back to accounts he creates just for this purpose. And he gets a credit card, officially registered to a James Grant Smith.

It’s common enough that no one will think anything is out of the ordinary and it’s what he signed the lease with all those months ago. 

Obviously, he also creates several alternate identities just in case. He’s not that out of touch.

Well, he fakes the financial records so that it looks like he’s had this card for years. He even gives himself a half-decent credit score, even though he’s only half-sure what it is. But that’s another matter entirely.

With his back-dated account details in hand, he calls the company and asks why his similarly back-dated card order hasn’t arrived, yet. It’s false, of course, but he’s polite and the man on the phone is happy to help. 

He even upgrades it for him. In turn, Bucky uses his light hacking to have a superior recommend him for a promotion after his Facebook page expresses some regret he’s been passed up yet again. 

That bank should really look into their security systems.

His accounts have proper anti-hacker measures. It wouldn’t be right to have his stolen money restolen, would it?

And technically, it’s his.What money Hydra has is because of his services. It’s because of the profits they made off of him. It’s because of him they even have it.

He has to consciously unclench his fists when he realizes it. Assassinations weren’t enough for Hydra, they also had to profit off of it. Of course they did.

Clearly Hydra’s not caught up on the news. They’re exposed. They’re done with.  _ Cut off one head _ and the rest fucking burn. 

He does his research. 

There are several organizations that are investigating Hydra’s infiltration around the world. Several that are advocating for various forms of equality. Several that are helping with superhero-related accidents. Several that are trying to make the world a better place.

They all receive large, anonymous donations.

Hydra can go to hell and their financials right along with it.

* * *

Thursday night, before dinner, he finally gets the chance to snoop through Ellie’s bookshelves. He’s finished the last one she gave him, and when he brings it up, she says he can go borrow another one from her bookshelf.

Charlie snickers when he doesn’t borrow hiding his excitement. “I think I’ve got the next few problems, go pick out your book.”

Lucas grumbles from Ellie’s couch, where he’s attempting to annotate a book. “How can you like reading?”

“Well back in my day, us kids had no other option.”

He snorts. “Man, you’re like 30.”

Bucky shoots Ellie a grin, walking over to the bookshelf. “The generational gap is obvious, sometimes, isn’t it?”

She turns around to hide her smile, throwing delicious-smelling things into a pan. “Go pick something out.”

He does as he’s told and starts looking over the titles. It’s fascinating. The books people have in their home say a lot about them.

Ellie’s has a little bit of everything. A few history books that David probably gave her, a few activist books, a few young adult novels that she probably shared with Lucas and Charlie, a few romance novels she and Victoria exchange. He actually recognizes a few of the old science fiction novels.

Then, he recognizes the cover of one. He pulls it out. It’s an illustration of a girl standing in front of a massive, scaly dragon with glowing purple eyes and those whisker-like tendrils on either side of its face. There’s intelligence in its eyes and it appears to be smiling. 

It’s like it knows it has the girl trapped, and she has to be clever enough to escape or die trying. This drawing gave him nightmares for months, yet Bell only laughed when Steve gave it to her.

Steve had spent weeks quizzing him on what dragons looked like, how they should act, how they should move. He’d asked him about what colors he should use, and they’d had a debate over whether his purple pencil was yellow or purple. He’d planned out the design on so many papers that Bucky had found half-drawn dragons around their apartment until the day he shipped out.

It was a present for her 16th birthday because she was getting serious about wanting to be a writer. Belle used to spend hours ranting about character arcs and allegories and style. Bucky loved it.

“James?” Ellie stands behind him. “You remember what we talked about?”

He blinks. He nods. He consciously does not reach for a knife. “I’m fine.” 

Ellie’s look tells him he’s not successful. It also tells him she thinks he’s full of shit.

He clears his throat. “Can I borrow this one?”

She hesitates, clearly debating between pressing or letting it go. Eventually, she smiles. “Sure. Dinner’s ready.”

As Ellie turns, his eyes do a sweep of the room. Everyone’s already in the kitchen, conversing in a dull roar. He chides himself for not noticing. He should have been aware enough to hear everyone.

He plasters a smile on as he and Ellie rejoin the others. They attempt to hide their worried looks, but fail miserably. 

David claps his shoulder as he sits down. “Which one did you pick?”

It’s enough of a signal that everyone relaxes.

He looks at the cover, reading the title for the first time. “The Ruth Arnold Chronicles.”

“Maribelle Barnes?” Theo holds his hand out, a silent request to see it. “I used to love that book.”

He passes it across the table. “Really?”

“Yeah, it made me want to be a mechanic.” He flips through the pages absently and turns to Ellie. “I didn’t know you liked this series.”

"A student of mine recommended it to me a long time ago,” Ellie says. “I used to teach it every year.”

Theo passes it to Lucas when he asks to see it. “What’s so great about it?”

“For starters, it’s got dragons from another planet in it,” Theo points out. “And her siblings invent some really cool things.”

“That’s actually really cool,” Charlie says. “James, can I read it when you’re done?”

Ellie gets her teacher's voice on. “It was published after World War 2, so it’s an allegory for how people ignored the rise of fascism because it wasn’t their problem.”

Lucas turns the book over, runs his index finger over the drawing of the dragon. “It’s creepy.”

Theo chuckles. “It’s even creepier in the story. The writer sure knew what she was doing. Good luck, James, you’re in for it alright.”

The book gets passed back to Bucky and conversation moves on.

The rest of the night is good. It’s fun being around everyone and hearing about their days. David has yet another interesting story about what a student did in his class and Victoria and Charlie start on way they feel about something a movie star did.

It’s a great night. 

But afterwards...afterwards is rough.

He doesn’t read the book yet. It just stands, lonely on his kitchen countertop. He can’t. Not...yet.

Bucky’’s still not good with silence, so he opens his laptop to find some music to play. Lucas was shocked that he didn’t know a certain song and convinced him to download a streaming service. So now he can play music in the apartment.

There are many, many tabs still open from the other day, and he goes through and closes them all. The final one is the wire recorder interview page, still open to the headline. The last interview he ever did.  


He scrolls and there’s a video.

He clicks play before he can overthink it.

A man in a navy suit enters the frame. “Here at the Library of Congress, we are pleased to announce the successful recovery of the last interview with James Buchanan Barnes, Howling Commando and close friend to Captain America.”

The camera changes angles, and the man turns to face it. It’s rather awkward, even to Bucky. “The wire recording was painstakingly restored and we can listen to it now due to the efforts of our experts. Take a listen.”

It cuts to a large, gray machine. Someone presses the play button, and the wheels on one side start turning. 

Crackling to life, the recording starts:

Th e man’s voice is a surprisingly clear, deep voice. “Good evening, I am here with Sergeant Barnes, a member of the Howling Commandos. If I heard the talk around the base right, you just returned from a mission with your team.”

His own voice answers, and he can practically hear the amused look on his face. “Yes, sir, but I can’t give details. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course. My question is entirely different. How would you describe working with your team?”

“It’s an honor. I have a great deal of respect for each and every one of them.”

“How exceptional. I know in the States we’re wondering how such an extraordinary team was formed.”

His voice chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard the story of Captain America rescuing 400 prisoners. After that, well, it was just natural that we would come together to be a part of the Howlies.”

“Was it difficult, at first?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Very quickly, we found that we worked really well together in the field and got along off it just as well.”

"How do you boys spend your time off-mission?”

"Obviously, we like to eat and sleep as much as the next soldiers. But other than that, if we’re not training I’m catching up on my letters.”

"Oh, do you have a special sweetheart?”

“No, I’m not that lucky.” There was a hint of a joke in his voice, but it fades as he continues. “I write to my family. I’ve got 3 sisters and my parents safe back home in Brooklyn.”

“Now, I understand that you’ve known Captain America the longest.”

A cocky sort of annoyance leaks into his voice. “I’ve known Steve the longest, yeah. We grew up together. Of course, he wasn’t Captain America, then.”

“I imagine that must have been a change, seeing your friend in a uniform like that.”

“It was different, but Steve’s always been just as smart and courageous as he was before the uniform.”

“How does it feel, to have seen it all along?”

The answer doesn’t come right away. “I can’t help thinking that there are so many who aren’t respected or valued because of how they appear. Women, or people that have health issues, or a different colored skin. And it’s a shame that a lot of people can’t see past that.”

The interviewer is silent for a long moment.

He takes it as an opportunity to continue. “It’s similar with Steve, because he wasn’t known for his intelligence or bravery until he became Captain America.”

“I’m sure the first thing people notice is his strength.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I just have one more question for you. What would you recommend to all our soldiers over here?”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is the whirring of the recording. When he answers, Bucky knows he’s making sure his voice doesn't shake. “Your most important job out here is to do your best to keep your men safe.”

The interviewer’s cheery tone is jarring. “Well, Sergeant Barnes, it was a pleasure to have the chance to sit with you tonight.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, sir.” His voice comes out as casually as ever.

The recording stops with a click. Bucky exits the article as fast as he can, and tries not to dwell on the fact that he spent most of the interview pretending.

He fails spectacularly.


	9. Plan

Bell’s book is incredible.

It’s everything he’s loved reading since he was a kid. He reads the entire thing in one sitting, barely stopping to eat. 

It’s really fucking good. 

But the best part is, at the end of the book, there’s an author’s bio.

It reads, “Maribelle Barnes, affectionately called “Belle” by her family, was born in Brooklyn in 1926. She was inspired to write the _Ruth Arnold_ _Chronicles_ by the science fiction stories she grew up reading and her experiences coming of age during World War 2. This was the first book Barnes published, and the cover art comes from art that a childhood friend gave her to encourage her pursuits as an author. This series is considered by many to be the most profound blend of fantasy and science fiction in literature.”

It is. It really is. 

Underneath it, though…

He can see his sister.

It’s right there, he’s shocked no one else can see it. Ruth loses her brother and her adopted brother about halfway through the story. And the way she describes it…

Bucky knows he never wanted them to go through that. He cried when the two of them die, partly because Bell write it that fucking well, and partly because...well that was him and Steve. It’s like he’s watching his family react to his death.

And that’s...that’s…

He pulls out his laptop and searches her name. He finds her Wikipedia page and wow. There’s so much. She published this book in 1948, and the rest of the series became instant hits. She wrote other books. Other stories. God, she’s always had so many stories contained within her. 

And her family. Her family is beautiful. She got married in 1968 to a man named Mark. Apparently they met through their activism work and fell in love. And they had 3 kids together and a couple of dogs and moved to Upstate New York where they lived until…

They lived in Upstate New York until her husband’s death in 2009 and hers in 2012. Cancer.

Bucky stares blankly into his computer screen. Various pop-ups come and go in the browser.

The screen goes dark, and he’s left staring at his own reflection in the black screen. He jogs the mouse.

He looks up his parents. They inherited both Bucky and Steve’s estate, including the Captain America royalties. They earned enough money from it to set up a charity for kids with disabilities and another one for military families. Helped so many people throughout the wars of the rest of the century. They died within a year of each other.

Looks up Becca. She held several secretarial and research assistant jobs at a hospital until she invented a type of sterilizing solution, then she transferred to the newly-formed SHIELD and continued her research. She got married, and had a daughter. 

Went on to discover and invent and do so many great things before her death.

Bee became an architect like she always wanted to. She designed libraries and offices and community centers and they’re beautiful. They’re fun and bring in the surroundings and each of them are different. Bucky’s willing to bet that each building has the same atmosphere as her smile used to: stunning and charming so that it feels like everything is right.

He finds her Wikipedia page, and to his delight, it’s long. It talks about her inspirations, those that were inspired by her. How she rejected how strictly her peers like Henry Ford adhered to modernistic principles. How she and Frank Lloyd Wright believed buildings and nature should be in harmony, and were personal friends and colleagues. 

There’s so much information. He absorbs the information about his sister’s life as if he’s a sponge. He reads about her designs and how she came up with all of them. Until…

“With the input of those close to them, she designed the Howling Commandos Memorial in the Washington Mall, which finished construction in the late 1960s. The statue of each member of the Howling Commandos except James Buchanan Barnes stands around a reflecting pool engraved with the names of the American soldiers that died during WW2. James Buchanan Barnes is absent from the memorial to represent his death in 1944.

“Visitors are encouraged to step into the spot left for him. In explanation, Ruby Barnes said, ‘Bucky never thought he was doing something brave, because there were a lot of soldiers like him who just wanted to look after their friend. There are a lot of people today who are doing the same thing—my brother’s absence from the memorial represents those fallen soldiers who are so like many of us.

“We can’t all be Steve Rogers, even though i’m sure we’d like to. But we can be Bucky Barnes.”

Fuck. Bee…

He stares blankly for several minutes. Hours.

When he finally closes the screen, long dark, his hands shake. For a second he thinks the withdrawals are back, but no. Those are better now. This is something else.

It has something to do with the gaping hole in his chest.

* * *

* * *

“Remind me not to get fucking shot again,” Bucky groans. Even with their stolen, jerking truck, they’re still hours away from base. They bandaged him up as best as they could, but couldn't do much out here. 

At least his shoulder stopped bleeding. And taking as much morphine as he did definitely helped. He’d kept it hidden, of course. No one in their right minds would let him take about as much as Steve without asking questions.

“You really need a reminder?” Bucky’s sitting pressed against Steve’s side with his hands keeping pressure on his shoulder. It looks like a strange, backwards hug.

“You do.”

Dernier, Gabe, and Moritia are asleep on the other side of the truck bed. It’s not night, but at this point, they’ll take all the sleep they can get. Dum Dum and Falsworth are up in the front driving, and they’ll switch every few hours until they get to base.

“How are you doing?” Steve asks.

Personally, Bucky thinks that’s an unnecessary question. “Ready to go fucking dancing later.”

Steve falls quiet. “You know, I told Peggy I would take her dancing when this is all over.”

Hell, Bucky’d rather get shot again than have this conversation. “Did you?”

“Yeah. What do you think of her?”

“She’d kick our asses for talking about her.”

“Yeah,” he says, like the far-gone fool he is. “Really, though.”

He sighs. “She’s great, Steve. You’ll be great together.”

That was the mess of it, wasn’t it? Bucky can’t even hate her. She’s the best at what she does and fought her way to be there. She’s stronger than the entire US Army combined and isn’t afraid to admit it. Hell, she’s even fucking funny.

And...it’s what he’s always wanted for him. Peggy sees what Bucky sees in him. She sees him as Steve. How can he deny Steve a chance at something like that, if that's what he wants.  


“I hope I’ve got a chance,” Steve says. Sometimes, it’s like everything about his new enhancements disappears. This is pure, Brooklyn Steve.

“You can’t see how she looks at you, pal.” He shakes his head. Honestly...“You’ve got more than a chance.”

W hat does this mean for…?” He doesn't finish his sentence.

Bucky sure as hell doesn’t want to. “Not now.”

“Bucky…”

“There’s a fucking bullet in my shoulder, can we do this later?”

Steve doesn’t say that there might not be a later. Bucky doesn't say that it won’t matter, then, will it?

“Fine.” Bucky knows he’s making a face behind him, even as he pulls him more tightly against him. 

He relaxes into it. “What do you think the future will be like?”

“Bucky…” He still doesn’t like talking about the future.

It’s strange to him. They can finally have one. Bucky doesn’t have to worry about a winter getting the better of Steve. He doesn’t have to worry that a flight of stairs will set off an asthma attack that’ll put him in the hospital that he might not come back from.

He clarifies. “Ours. What’s our future like?”

“We could take a trip.”

“We’re on a trip,” Bucky huffs sarcastically.

“A real one. Visit every state and do everything we can there. We’ll send proper postcards back to your family.”

“My sisters will be jealous.” They’d try to argue their way into their trip for weeks.

“Nah, they’ll all be too successful by then.” Steve’s voice is gentle, and he can hear the smile in it. “See, Becca invented something that puts Howard to shame, Ruby’s in college for architecture, and Bell’s first book is set to come out.”

“Makes an awful amount of sense when you put it that way.” Bucky grins. They’re going to do great things, he just knows it. “Think they’ll be able to live off it?”

"Yeah. I’ll see if I can get anyone to buy the sketches I do on our trip, and we can send the money back to them if they need it.”

Bucky smiles. “You’ll be a famous artist by the time we’re back.”

“You think so?” 

He’s always thought Steve’s drawings were the best he’s ever seen. Even when they were just napkin scribbles for his sisters, or little cartoons in the margins of the newspaper, or doodles on his math homework.

But the ones he put effort into? Their neighbors back in Brooklyn had commissioned a drawing of the two of them to celebrate 5 years together. They were two women who’d met at a mutual friend’s drag ball, and Steve had captured every ounce of love they shared between them.

“Yeah, I do, Steve.”

T he jolting of the truck and the snores of their team are the only sounds for a long, long time.

* * *

Bucky moves his patrol times to 5:30 am, 1:45 pm, and 9:15 pm. He still changes up the routes, walks like he has a destination, subtly looks for any signs Hydra has his location. He leaves out the window. He writes down how much calories he’s taking in, because he tends to forget when he last ate.

When he comes back, he looks into his family’s past. His parents and sisters and their marriages and their children and their friends. Hell, he even spends a day looking into a boy named Johnathan who used to live down the street. From what he can tell, they were never close, but they might have been. 

They probably knew each other, at least. Probably knew enough about each other to make small talk. Maybe they were even friends.

Either way, it’s gone now.

But the most striking part of it—the thing that makes Bucky have to pace around the apartment—is that he served in World War 2. They were trained at the same base. Different units, but Richard was a decent marksman as well. Shipped out two weeks before he was.

Accomplished service record, got a few promotions. A few field reports mention his bravery, how he protected his men. Got a couple of injuries but was lucky enough to survive it.

And when the war was over...he went home.

There are some files that mention he was pretty messed up afterwards, but eventually he got enrolled into a therapy program. Got diagnosed with whatever PTSD is, started on medication.

As best as he can tell, programs like that help fix the brain. It’s like how when you get shot, you’re supposed to take the bullet out so that it can start to heal. And you bandage it and clean it and shit, but eventually it gets better, even if there’s a scar.

He doesn’t know how the hell you’re supposed to remove a mental brain-bullet, but this guy did it. And he went to college, got married, and had a family.

Died of something completely normal, surrounded by the ones that loved him. In his daughter’s Facebook post, she says he was optimistic and accepting until the end. 

Bucky lets his head fall back against the wall. 

Fuck.

That would have been him, if he hadn’t been captured. He would have lived a life like that. He’d get married and his kids would tease him for taking horrible phone pictures and saving everything.

He would need glasses or a cane or a wheelchair and his bones wouldn’t knit back together when they break. His messed up mind would be from war. His left arm would be a normal prosthetic, or gone, or might not be missing in the first place. He might have been killed in the fall, or during the surgeries, or during the experiments or from training.

There are a lot of things that could have happened.

Bucky snorts a laugh. Hydra could have made him into a fucking...underwater assassin or something. He could have a goddamn tail and gills and fins. They could have turned him into a dragon from Bell’s book.

That, at least, would be interesting. Maybe dragons have selective memories because they live so long. So Bucky could choose what he remembers. Could he still drink coffee as a 0dragon?

He puts on a jacket and his gloves, and locks the door behind him. He’s not sure about dragons, but Bucky can drink coffee.

The coffee shop is not too crowded, but even so, there are 17 people, 3 of whom he estimates carry mace. 4 additional employees. At least two have experience fighting, and one can bench press 100 pounds easily. The barista, a 5’9” man with tattoos along his arms and his hair dyed blue, recommends a hazelnut macchiato, and it’s delicious as promised.

“James!” It’s Max’s voice, but he’s not at any of the tables in the center of the room. They seem like the badly-defensible type that Max would be prone to, but to his surprise, he’s at the corner table. Sitting facing the wall with his back towards the cafe, but it’s something.

Bucky smiles as he makes his way over, left hand in his pocket to appear casual. “Hey, how’s it going?”

"Great!”

He deliberately looks at the mess of half-organized folders and notes, then at Max’s wild hair and mis-buttoned flannel shirt. “Looks like it. How much coffee have you had?”

Max shuffles his folders around self-consciously. “Just 2, Liv would kill me if I overdosed on caffeine.” He looks to the side, going off on a tangent. “And really, out of all the things to overdose on…”

Bucky chuckles. Even with those damn vials still under the sink, he’s had enough of getting drugged. He sips his macchiato, glad his serum does something right. “What are you doing with all this?”

“I have to present my preliminary research to my advisor soon and it’s like nothing’s making sense.” It’s like a lightbulb appears. He straightens in his seat, all of his focus on Bucky. “Can you be my rubber duck?”

“Um.” That’s not any sort of code that Bucky recognizes. “What?”

“Oh, well my programming friend told me about how they have this thing where if a code isn’t working, you explain it to a rubber duck.” He smiles and only half of it is out of desperation.

Bucky shrugs. It makes a lot of sense. And actually, it does explain why the techs used to talk so goddamn much around him. “Sure, I’m pretty sure I’ve been a rubber duck before.”

He takes the seat along the other wall, this one with a much better view of the cafe than Max’s. There are 19 people now, 3 people left and 6 more came in—none heavily armed. 2 with minor fighting experience.

“Woah,” Max says. “I’ve never seen someone do that outside an action movie.”

“Do what?”

“You just scanned the room, didn’t you?”

Bucky makes a note to be more discreet about it. Or just around Max—it hadn’t taken more than a second, and no one’s noticed it before. “Sure. I used to be in the Army.”

“Really?” Max sits back and takes a sip of his drink.

“Yeah. Aren’t I supposed to be a rubber duck?”

“I’m a journalist, you can’t fault me for asking questions.”

Bucky looks over the notes. It’s...well illegible is a kind word for it. Half of it are arrows and the other half are acronyms but from what he can make out, “You’re looking into Hydra?”

Max draws out his response, knowing that he has Bucky interested now. “You were in the Army?”

“Look, most of it’s probably classified, and I don’t feel like getting into the rest of it.” 

He sighs and holds his hand out for the paper. “I know there’s more going on with Hydra.”

“More than…” He goes through what he’s supposed to know as an average citizen. “Infiltrating most positions of power in the world?”

Max flips through his notes, evidently deciding to test his rubber duck theory. “A lot of people are looking into what specifically was influenced by Hydra, but it would be better if we looked at how they did it.”

Bucky nods. “Seems like a good idea.”

“But how  _ did _ they do it? Obviously, it had to be under the radar or people would have caught on pretty quickly. You can’t just go around doing a fucking Nazi salute and not expect to be punched in the face.”

“Obviously.”

“But there had to have been some sort of leadership, right?”

He slides across a folder. Inside, a dozen pictures and typed up notes on each of them. “Are these...Hydra members after the war?”

“Yeah, I had a history friend look my theory over. She said World War 2 was the beginning of a sort of...organized chaos? You had people moving to suburbs, the founding of SHIELD and things like that, but no one from that time really knew what they were doing, right?”

That’s a fucking understatement. “Right. So Hydra could have used the time after the war to start regaining power?”

“Exactly.”

He flips through the pictures. There’s one of a stodgy, balding man with glasses. Barely concealed horror and fascination. Pride. A simpering voice that nevertheless always made him shrink back.

He takes a steady breath, masking his expression seamlessly. “What about this Zola guy?”

Max looks through the other photos in the pile, barely sending him a second glance. “I thought so too, but he’s pretty much the most boring one on the list.”

Bucky hands over the file, content to never see it again. He sips his macchiato. “Wasn’t he like, the right hand of Scmidt or something?”

“No, he was always more behind the scenes. Never much of a strategist.”

Oh, Max. He’s so close. “I mean, he stayed alive, right? Got himself captured by the SSR just before Rogers defeated Scmidt so that he wouldn’t be a part of it?”

“I mean, he did get captured, but it wasn’t so he wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.”

No, Zola expected to be captured. The fucking bastard was careless with his words when he thought Bucky was unconscious. He’s certainly heard that damn rant repeated enough in his nightmares. 

But he can’t say that. He shrugs and says, “Look into it. Zola’s as good of a start as any.”

Max looks at him like he’s crazy, but writes it down in his notebook. When he finishes, he grins, teasing. “I didn’t pin you as a Captain America nerd.”

Bucky sits back. “What did you pin me as?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs and drains his cup. “An indie or punk kinda guy who had Greek Mythology phase as a kid.”

“What the hell does Greek Mythology have to do with anything?”

Max sort of sways back and forth, like he’s trying to get Bucky to pick up on something. “You know, the olive oil thing? Achilles and Patrolacus?”

Bucky doesn’t even bother asking what the hell that has to do with anything. “Sorry, no mythology. I was into Sci-Fi, though.”

“Oh, so you read Maribelle Barnes?”

“Yeah, I actually just read the  _ Ruth Arnold Chronicles _ .”

“Those were my favorite. Honestly, out of all the books I read in high school, those were actually good.”

Bucky hides his smile. “Yeah, they’re really good. She sure knew what she was doing, didn’t she?”

“My english teacher sure thought so.” He picks up his coffee before realizing he’s already finished it. “She would go on and on about how the characters were based on people she knew in real life. And you know Ruth’s brothers? The two engineers? She had this theory that they were based on Captain America and her brother, Bucky.”

He startles. It’s not that he doesn’t think so, too—they are certainly enough of their inside jokes—but he’s not used to other people using that name. “Really?” 

“Oh, yeah, they were best friends. I always thought there was a little more going on with them.”

A little more going on with them…”They were together?”

Max snickers. “Hard to say. It’s not like I can go up to Captain America and just ask, can I?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, that would be awkward.” Bucky almost wishes he would. It would certainly explain the engineers, but were he and Steve together? He doesn’t remember, but that’s not saying much. “Tell me more about your research.”

As Max talks, Bucky wishes he could know that his theory was wrong. 

That the whole thing is ridiculous and unreal. That it’s just a wild theory that may or may not be true. That he’s not a central part of it.

Instead, he just watches as Max gets closer and closer to the truth.

* * *

“Bucky, come on, you look fine,” Steve says, even as he adjusts his collar.

“You’re one to talk.” He smooths his hair down, catching Steve’s eye in the mirror. “How’d you expect me to keep my hands off you tonight?”

Steve laughs like Bucky said something funny. “It’s just until we get to the bar anyways. You sure about this one?”

“The girls suggested it, remember? Besides, I’ve heard a couple of the guys at the docks talking about it—safe as can be.”

There’s a knock at the door and Steve goes to answer it.

“Bucky, are you really going to leave your dates at the door? I’m sure your mother would be disappointed in you,” Helen teases, arm snug around Alice. They’re dressed for dancing, all dolled up in flowing dresses.

He can hear Steve’s smile—his eyes are all crinkled and everything. “Yeah, Buck, she raised you better.”

Bucky adjusts his sleeves one more time, before walking the short couple of steps to reach the door. “Don’t bring up my Ma tonight. It’s just wrong.”

“You look very handsome, Bucky.” Alice says, placating his urge to straighten his collar. “Can we go?”

Bucky grins. “Let’s go dancing.”

Their situation is this: Bucky and Steve are together and Helen and Alice are together. But thanks to some scumbags, it’s not safe to openly be together in some parts of town. So after both couples dropped hints to the other, they came to an arrangement: they go on double dates and for all appearances, Bucky’s date is Helen and Steve’s is Alice.

Depending on how friendly the dance hall is, they switch back when they get there. If not, well, the girls are great dancers and don’t even mind if Steve steps on their toes. After all, it’s not either of them that they’ll be going home to.

It’s a plan that has worked perfectly over the months since he and Steve moved in.

The music is the first thing he notices. It’s quick and jazzy and washes over him. His fingers twitch and his feet want to start dancing before he even takes in the rest of the dance hall. There’s some tables pushed to the sides of the room and a bar along the left side. Towards the back, the band plays, the source of the incredible music.

Alice makes a sound as they take in the room. “Sorry, I thought it would be better than this.”

“Better?” Bucky looks at the three of them, and sure enough, they all look disappointed. Sure, he can see why: the tables are missing a leg or two each, the walls need a few layers of paint, and the building itself is at least 50 years old. But...“The only reason you don’t like it is because we’re not dancing already. Listen to the band.”

Helen chuckles and takes Alice’s hand. “Yeah, what are we waiting for?”

Alice shakes her head fondly as she lets herself be dragged along to the dance floor, laughing.

It’s hard enough talking over the music, so Bucky steps over to Steve’s left. “Dance with me?”

“You know I'm no good,” Steve says, running his other hand through his now-messed up hair. 

Bucky pulls on his arm, raising his eyebrows. He’ll be damned if he leaves without at least one dance from Steve. He can’t help the way his mouth turns at the corner when Steve looks at him, getting that stubborn look on his face. 

“Stevie come on, let’s dance.”

“I’m just going to step on your toes,” Steve says. He’s not wrong, but Bucky fully expects to have his toes stepped on tonight.

"It’ll be fun—promise.” Bucky can see the moment he gives up for now, and jumps on it. He pulls Steve to the dance floor just as a slow song is starting. He pulls Steve against him, letting them just sway along to the music.

He starts off stiff, even after the 3rd time he steps on Bucky’s toes goes without comment. He’d hate it if Bucky rested his head on his, so he settles for playing with the short hair at his nape.

Steve huffs, trying to pretend he’s not ticklish. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Do you?” He asks innocently. The song comes to a stop, but Bucky keeps them swaying. The band starts on another one and it’s perfect—it starts off slow, but picks up the pace quickly. Bucky starts moving them through the steps.

“I know I’m not any good. You don’t have to try and make me feel better about it.”

Bucky leans in so Steve will hear him. “Yeah? So you wouldn’t mind picking up the pace?” He doesn't even realize that they’ve already begun a new dance.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The first verse ends and the band plays the much more upbeat chorus. Bucky grins as he picks up the pace. And...oh, if Bucky had half Steve’s talent for drawing. 

He would capture the way Steve’s brow furrows as Bucky leads him through the dance. The way he doesn’t know what to do with his arms so they lay on his waist when that’s not what you’re supposed to do in a waltz. The way he winces when he steps on Bucky’s toes again, as if he’s hurting himself.

The way his eyes light up, solving a puzzle, as this song flows into the next and Bucky changes the dance again. The way his hair gets sweaty on his forehead and he unbuttons his top two buttons on his shirt. The way he grins at Bucky after he asks to lead and Bucky says yes.

Bucky’s pretty sure he’s making the steps up as he goes, at this point. It’s something like a waltz, something like a lindy hop, and something that...well...depends on how loose your definition of dancing is.

But it’s fun and loose and good. Bucky lets out an ugly snort at the sight of Helen and Alice laughing at them and the four of them pile into booth. 

Helen stops laughing for only a second. “What was that dance you two were doing?”

“You haven’t heard of it?” Bucky asks innocently. He pulls Steve closer into his side, despite how hot it is now. “The folks over in Europe love it.”

Helen’s poker face is just as good as his. “What would you know about the ‘folks over in Europe,’ Bucky?” Alice presses her face into Helen’s shoulder to hide her snort, which of course sets the rest of them off again.

Yes, Bucky would draw this, too, if he could: the four of them in a barely-standing dance hall laughing like they get to stay in this moment forever. 


	10. Honesty

“What’s this about not coming to dinner this week?” Ellie asks when he drops off some groceries she’d asked him to pick up. 

“Charlie told you?” He’d made sure to mention it when he was helping her with her homework, sitting on the 3rd floor stairs, eggs and craft materials around them as they tried to figure out how not to break them when dropping them off the landing.

“The question is, why haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with work,” Bucky lies. His heart drops. He’s done much worse things than lie, but...that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Ellie studies him for a very long moment. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t tense, doesn’t glance away. She doesn’t have anything to prove her suspicion of him lying, so she eventually nods. “How are you enjoying _Ruth Arnold_?”

He’d borrowed the 2nd book in the series last week, but hasn’t managed to start it just yet. How much more will he recognize? And now with everything Max told him...It’s still unread on the countertop. “They’re great, Maribelle Barnes is an incredible author.”

“She is,” Ellie says. “I might have to reread them myself when you finish.”

People don’t just want to read his sister’s books, they want to reread them. It’s incredible. “I’ll be quick, then.”

"No, no. Enjoy them. Some things just can’t be rushed,” Ellie says. 

Bucky’s pretty sure they’re not talking about the book anymore, but he sure as hell doesn't know what they are talking about. “Right. Thank you.”

Despite the lack of eyeline, Bucky feels Ellie’s eyes on him the entire way to his apartment.

* * *

It’s easier to look up Peggy Carter than his family. 

Well, it’s actually very difficult because most of her accomplishments are still classified, but it doesn’t make him want to crawl under a blanket. So that’s what he does.

Bowl of ramen in hand—with spices and vegetables and things Lucas recommended to him—he looks into Peggy Carter’s past.

In a fucked up sort of way, it makes him feel better to know that someone else’s past is murky, too. Sure, there’s some philanthropy, charity work, and good press opportunities. But her record isn’t crystal clean and there’s no telling about what happened off the books.

Even he can’t find anything concrete. He’d know—someone hiding something that well doesn’t think it’ll look good. 

And then—he bends the spoon he’s holding. He finds an old message board. From looks alone, Bucky guesses the message board is older than he is.

Yet, despite the shitty design, the comments are all recent, snarky comments about how Captain America is an idiot for taking out the wrong bases. 

User thesschmidt posted last night: “anyone know why ppl think cap is so smart when he can’t even figure out where we do the real work???? Asking for a friend.”

In response, user hydraplane88 posted this morning: “getting frozen cant be good for the brain. Probably a good thing tbh.”

The thread continues with weissmacht’s comment, “yeah right, what’s a dude with a fucking dinner plate going to do? We got him easily.”

It’s enough to make him go through his list of Hydra bases. Only a couple of them have been wiped out, and it’s only the most obvious ones.

There’s an AI program named JARVIS that monitors and encrypts the Avengers’ online activity. Each of them are protected well enough that he can’t get at specifics, but there’s been considerably less spontaneous content from their social media accounts. There’s hardly anything on current events. 

And the Stark Industries stock is doing better than usual, a pretty clear indication that Tony Stark hasn’t done anything stupid lately. Visibly stupid, at least.

He hates to admit it, but those fucking fascist Hydra dicks are right. They’re going after bases, but it’s the wrong ones.

Honestly, he was only able to locate the more secretive bases because his faulty brain somehow remembered his handlers bitching about being moved to a different location.

JARVIS has a fanmail page. Several, actually. But, only one that appears to be run by JARVIS himself. Apparently, he went viral a few months ago for helping Pepper Potts prank Tony Stark by making the voice inside the Iron Man suit talk like he’s breathing helium. The video he posted on his Twitter account is fucking hilarious.

But, that’s not the point. JARVIS can receive messages. 

Perfect.

After double and triple checking his laptop’s encryption, Bucky writes a message.

He even includes a meme so they won’t think he’s an enemy. He’d had to explain it, but it’s a badly edited picture of Steve and the dragon from Belle's book, in matching shirts with a little checklist that says:

  1. Get frozen for a long time
  2. World changes
  3. Save the world
  4. Expose corruption
  5. Be good with kids



Lucas showed it to him—and had to explain the meme to him—and afterwards he hadn’t been able to stop laughing. Who knew that waking up in the future was such a common thing?.

It’s all in code, obviously. It’s not too difficult by his standards, but they’ve got half a dozen superpowered nerds and a goddamn AI—they can figure it out. They’ll be fine.

Right?

Fuck it—he hits the send button. Nothing to do now but wait.

* * *

Music pours out from the 3rd floor apartment. Now, the block is always filled with different types of music in different languages and different tempos. So hearing music isn’t anything new. But the uproarious laughter that drifts alongside it...that makes him pause in the stairwell. 

Now that he’s made the go-bags, he just had to stash them. So, leaving before dawn had let him get everywhere he needed to.

There’s one in the alley he first met Lucas in, one stashed in a sealed trash bag and hidden under the little footbridge in the park, one on an empty rooftop of an abandoned building across the city, one under the loose floorboards in the bedroom. 

Bucky pauses at the top of the stairs, hesitating to finish the climb back to his apartment. It’s so easy to forget most people don’t need to do shit like hiding supplies just in case he needs to run. Maybe one day, he won’t have to, either. One day he might be able to play music and laugh with someone he loves, carefree.

And...paint?

"James!” Victoria calls from inside. Her voice is light with residual laughter. “Care to join us?”

Bucky leans against the left side of the door frame, peering inside. It’s the same layout as his own apartment—kitchen flowing into the living room with two bedrooms and a bathroom. Ellie must have had both of their apartments altered so it was one bedroom. 

But unlike hers—and his, purely because there’s not much in it—theirs is a sort of chaos. Cut up trash bags and newspapers line the floor. Blue tape outlines the edges of the long, shared wall of the kitchen and living room that runs through most of the apartment. All the furniture is piled along whatever wall it could find. The wall was blotchily outlined along the edges in the light blue paint.

And Victoria and David…Bucky chuckles. “Are you painting the wall or each other?”

David comes over and claps him on the arm. “Hard to tell, sometimes, isn’t it? You want to help?”

He thinks about the alternative. Go upstairs and...what? Alternate checking his email and Hydra chat rooms? That’s got to be pathetic or something. “Yeah, I’ll help. I’m not sure how good I’ll be, though.”

Has he ever painted before? Steve has, he used to take commissions to do advertisements for shop windows. But Bucky? He has no fucking clue.

“Don’t worry, it’s easy. If we can do it, you’ll be fine,” Victoria says. She hands him a paint brush an inch wide. “Why don’t you start cutting in?”

David shows him how to do it and Victoria turns up the music. They start on opposite sides, with Bucky in the living room and David and Victoria in the kitchen.

His hands are steady as he draws a careful line of light blue paint. The line is intentionally short, and then he goes back over it, feathering the edges so it’ll blend better when they start rolling.

Victoria starts signing from the top of the ladder, and she would match the artist’s deep, rolling voice if she knew how to sing. Unfortunately, she’s fairly awful at it. But she sings every word anyways, enthusiastically bopping her head as she paints. David, on a ladder, starts singing as well. His voice isn’t much better to be honest. But…

They share a smile when the song ends. And launch right into the next one, laughing when David makes up the words because he forgot them.

Bucky hums along experimentally. Even though he doesn’t know the words, after the first verse he knows enough of the artist’s patterns to mumble some of the words.

They paint the walls like this, to the sound of off tune belting and mumbled singing. It’s fun.

“Wow,” Victoria says, coming over to look at his side “And for a guy that wasn’t sure about painting, too. Where’d you learn to paint like that?”

He supposes his lines are clean, even without the buffer of blue tape. Bucky runs a hand through hair, accidentally getting paint in it. He shrugs—he’d rather not over-analyze why his hands don’t shake. “My best friend growing up was good at this stuff. I guess I picked something up.”

“No way,” David says. His brush makes a whooshing sound against the wall—it’s too dry. “It’s gotta be the sniper in you. Steady hands and all that.”

Either that or the hundreds of training exercises he wasn't allowed to fail at, where he was punished for shaking hands or unsure movements. You know, that time he was being trained as the world’s most deadliest assassin.

Victoria sends a look at her husband, who remains oblivious. She goes back to the ladder and asks—as casually as she can, which immediately makes Bucky pay more attention. The more casually someone asks a question, the less casual they are about it. “So, what happened with you and your friend?”

Bucky is quiet a long time. It would have been better if he’d just said something to dismiss it, but now she and David know there’s more to it. But it’s not like he can say that his friend, Steve Rogers, broke 70 years of Hydra conditioning on him and now Bucky’s trying to get him to go after the right bases, if he’s so hellbent on going after Hydra—either out of morality or to avenge him. It’s always hard to tell with Steve.

He focuses on keeping his lines straight. “It’s complicated.”

“How complicated can friendship be?” Victoria asks, totally unaware.

“It’s not our friendship that’s the problem. It’s everything else.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No, ma'm but thank you.” He dips his brush in the paint can.

In his periphery, Victoria nods, accepting this answer for now. “Got any family around?”

"Not exactly. They had their own lives when I was in the Army.”

David looks over at him. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky smiles. “No, not at all. I’m proud of them. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

David chuckles, but the lightness is lost the moment he and Victoria exchange a look. It’s eerie, actually, how much they can convey in total silence. Once, he’s sure Steve and him were like that. 

Victoria nods slightly. She makes a show of breathing in through her nose. “You know, I think I need some fresh air—paint fumes and all that.”

If it wasn’t for the conspiratorial look as she leaves, Bucky wouldn’t even know that this was planned. David doesn’t launch into whatever plan he has just yet. He makes a teasing comment about her leaving all the work to him.

Bucky has never thought of David as nervous, but the longer they’re painting, or making idle conversation, the more he seems to fidget. It’s unnerving, and he wishes he’d just get on with it. Fortunately, he’s had a lot of experience waiting.

At last, David seems to bite the bullet. So to speak. Bucky's weapons are upstairs.

“So,” he starts. It’s almost like he’s going to just leave it there, but he goes on. “I’ve been wondering something.”

Bucky doesn’t want to scare off, so he just makes an inquisitive little hum as he paints.

“I’ve been thinking of going to some VA sessions again. Group sessions, you know. My doctor said it might be good for me.”

He doesn’t know what the hell that has to do with him, but, “That’s great.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll go well.”

“That’s the thing.” David shifts around and fiddles idly with his paintbrush, getting even more on himself. “Would you go with me?”

“To group therapy?”

“Who knows, it could be fun.”

Bucky chuckles at the look on Daivd’s face that tells him he knows it won’t be. “I’m not too good with doctors.” Never mind that he doesn’t know what the hell it entails, hasn’t scouted the building, and obviously would have to create a better cover.

“There’s no doctors,” David rushes to reassure him. “I mean, there’s someone who’s trained in psychology and stuff, but from what I’ve heard, it’s just a group of vets sharing their experience and giving each other advice.”

"I don’t think that’s for me. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Fine, alright.” David holds up his hands with an easy smile. “Just think about it, ok?”

“Sure.”

Bucky makes his excuses some time later. He has other ways to spend his time than with group therapy. After all, he just received confirmation that the Avengers will _take care of it_. That night, he looks up the bus schedule from Brooklyn to DC

* * *

* * *

Bucky is pretending to be asleep when someone walks into the medical tent. Maybe, just maybe, if he is very still, they will leave him alone. He doesn’t have enough energy to put on a front that yes, of course, the painkillers are working. Yes, of course, he’s not angry he won’t be on the mission. Yes, of course, he wants to talk to whoever the hell this is.

Whoever it is pokes him in the side—kindly, the side that doesn’t have a bullet wound. That narrows it down to 2 people who can see right through him.

He ignores them. Maybe they’ll take the hint.

No such luck. Another poke. Goddamn it.

"I know you’re awake,” Peggy Carter says.

“No I’m not,” he grumbles. If every tiny movement didn’t hurt, he would turn over on his side. 

“I don’t have time for this,” Peggy says. It’s the tone that reminds him of Becca and Sarah Rogers at once: urgent and kind with a healthy measure of stubbornness. 

He wearily opens his eyes. She’s dressed in her uniform for missions and there’s a packed supply bag by the door. “All ready, then?”

She’s taking his place because he was dumb enough to get shot in the leg. Steve had wanted to wait, but they were set to do a time sensitive reconnaissance mission. Peggy offered to go instead of Bucky. The brass allowed it reluctantly, but they all know she’s a damn fine shot. “We leave in 20 minutes.”

“What are you still talking to me for?”

Peggy doesn’t respond right away, and hesitates. Now, until this point, Bucky wasn’t aware she could be anything less than confident in what she did. So why was she so tense?

Bucky tries for a grin. “You're going to miss me that much? Gotta say Peggy, didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

It works, at least. Peggy huffs a laugh. “I’ll tell the doctor he gave you too much morphine.”

“No way,” he says. “That’s the best part of all this—” Nevermind the fact that it wasn’t working on him. “Besides seeing Steve all nervous, of course.”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth quirks up, confirming that she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. Still, she shakes her head. “That’s probably because you’re here instead of going with them.”

Bucky’s no poet, not like Belle, who’s always had a way with words. But if he was, he’d describe the tangible weight of his next words. Here is the moment they finally tip over the knife’s edge they’ve danced on since they met.

"They’ve got you, what’s there to worry about?”

“Nothing.” Peggy nods, just a tiny bit. “I’ll look after them.”

“You’re the only one I’d trust to do it.”

* * *

The nurses let him in to see Peggy easily enough. His cover that she was an old mentor of his holds up well with the way he refuses to share much more. One of them even mutters that it was like talking to a soap bar in the bathtub. 

He sticks to surface details—hows she being treated, what’s her care like, does she have friends that visit—but it gives him more than the nurses through they were telling him. She is well cared for, although it’s hard for her loved ones to visit often when they don’t know what state she’ll be in. But some still do, including someone who stubbornly comes like clockwork, but he stopped coming so regularly a few months glad.

It has to be Steve. He can’t help but be grateful when the nurse says he stopped visiting so regularly a few months ago. A schedule like that is easy to track, and easier to follow someone. Although...perhaps it would be useful if Steve already knew he was being followed and wanted to lull his pursuers into a false sense of security, but—

Focus. That’s not why he’s here. 

See, he wants to know how a woman like Peggy Carter could let something like him happen. How could Hydra learn to flourish under her nose? How didn’t anyone see it?

The signs were right there in the released Hydra files. Sure, he already knew what to look for, having unknowingly picked up on the key phrases and identifiers and codes that marked certain projects as undeniably Hydra. But Peggy has always been the smartest of them all. How could that happen on her watch? He wanted answers. 

With Steve tearing down a hydra base halfway across the world, this was the time to get them. 

“It seems like a good day so far,” the nurse says. Her name badge reads Maggie. She appears harmless enough, but her toned figure and calculating eyes speak to the high levels of training she must have. “If her memory starts failing, it’s usually best to just go along with it. Better for Mrs. Carter, I mean.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. She leads him to her room, and he knocks on the door. 

A quiet, “Come in.”

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t know time has passed and Peggy isn’t the same woman she used to be. But seeing her, pale against the sheets with hair as grey as ash. She is as fragile as glass, and he almost doesn’t believe it’s her. 

Her eyes squint to see him. By rote, he records it in her ever growing mental list of weaknesses. 

“What are you doing all the way over there, I said come in,” Peggy says. There’s a teasing smile on the edge of her voice. This is familiar, at last. He and the Howlies had gotten enough scoldings laced with affection for him to recognize it—hell, he’s given enough to recognize the tone. 

He steps forward. 

Bucky knows he looks different than what she’d remember—if she can today. His hair is long enough to brush his shoulders, his smile comes less easily, and he’s got a fucking metal arm.

Still, he sees the moment she recognizes him. “Bucky? No, it can’t be…”

“Believe me, some days I am not even sure myself,” he says. He half heartedly forces it to come off easily and throws in a small smirk for good measure. 

She doesn’t buy it. Incredible, how her sharp eyes pin down the smallest emotions—and glanced over the largest of conspiracies. “How…?”

He glances around her room. It only takes him a second to pick out the items that point out potential weaknesses—framed photographs of family gatherings, glasses and hearing aids, wide spaces for wheelchair accessibility, charts with her medication, fresh flowers, a bag of specialty chocolates from the store across the street. In the single glance, he picks up on everything he was trained to notice and exploit in people. 

He doesn’t use it how he was meant to. 

Everything in this room says that she’s lived a full, happy life. Everything he’s read about her tells of the numerous things she’s accomplished. Everything he remembers about her in the war tells him she would be the best of all of them. 

It would be kindest to not say anything. She’s lived this long without knowing what happened under her nose. She’s certainly in no position to do anything about it. It would have been kinder to not come at all. 

But the vindictive part of him needs her to know. He can’t go after Hydra—not alone and not without risking being recaptured. Hell, he can’t even take anything back. But…

He clears his throat, no more than a slightly awkward pause between them. The world has not been merciful to him, but his voice doesn’t shake. “Zola…experimented on me when I was captured at Azzano. He gave me a version of the serum that made me survive the fall.”

Horror dawns on her. “You survived? We thought—“

“I know what you thought,” he interrupts. He...he can’t deal with her explanations right now. “I guess you were right though.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out harsh even to him. “Not all of me survived.”

He pulls off his glove and rolls up his sleeve. Her eyes widen as she takes in the metal. It takes her a long moment to say anything. “The Winter Soldier? You’re him?”

“Yeah.” The silence drags on. Conscious that anyone could walk in, he hides his arm again. That’s the last thing he needs. 

“What kind of idiot decided to make a secret assassin have a metal arm, anyway?”

There’s a moment when she’s not sure if she’s allowed to laugh, but she huffs despite herself. “I thought gallows humor ended with the wars.”

“It better not have, or I don’t think I’d have any jokes left.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up. “There’s your one about the rooster and the train.”

"The rooster and the train? I wish I remembered it," Bucky says. It sounds funny, at least. “You’d probably remember that one better than me. My memory isn’t the best these days.”

“You’re telling me,” Peggy says. “We should form a club or something.”

They settle into a silence that’s...well it’s far from comfortable. But he doesn’t want to be mad at her anymore, so there’s that.

Besides, when it comes down to it, he misses his friends. His family, Morita, Falseworth, Gabe, Dum Dum, all the commandos. Hell, he’d take Colonel Phillips yelling at him. Anything that’s halfway familiar. Halfway normal.

But no, even that wouldn’t be normal.

“Take a seat, Bucky. Tell me everything.” Peggy might have been a master at controlling her emotions when they knew each other, but she’s been out of practice. She hasn’t needed to in a long time, so it’s easy for him to tell that the request is made out of guilt. But not without kindness.

He looks around the room again as he sits down. It’s more for something to do than necessity; he’s already memorized it. “I don’t even want to know everything.”

She nods. “I can imagine.”

His smile is tense. “I don’t want you too,” he finds himself admitting. 

She pins him with a steady, inquisitive look. “What brings you here, then?”

“I…” Well it was to get answers about how something like him could have escaped them all. But it won’t change anything. “I’m not sure anymore.”

Another knowing look.

“You know, I forgot how you do that.” He chuckles, shifting under her gaze.

“Did what?”

“I could never hide anything from you, could I?” He asks.

“Of course not. That didn’t stop you all from trying, however.” Her laugh is gentle and easy. “I believe you all tried to throw me a surprise birthday party.”

“Didn’t we...Gabe and I tried to make you a cake, right?”

“Wrote to your mothers and everything for a recipe. I believe Steve traded his stash of cigarettes for the ingredients.”

“That was our stashes.”

"Which he kept winning because you all kept gambling with him.”

“He’d use his sweet-as-sugar act on us.” An act, Bucky wants to point out, Steve learned from his own sisters. And the 4 of them used it against him all the damn time. “You try resisting that.”

“I have. I believe...he’s still rather good at it, isn’t he?”

He plays absently at the hem of his glove. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Bucky...he does know you’re alive, doesn’t he?”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, he knows I’m alive. I tried to kill him a few months ago. He broke through Hydra’s programming.”

Peggy looks far too delighted. “Did he?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair and nods. Why did he think he could barge in and demand answers when he doesn’t even want to go into detail? That is a huge fucking flaw in his plan he shouldn’t have overlooked. 

“I always wondered about you two,” Peggy says. “Not that I didn’t know he was interested in me, but...there was always something special about you two.”

“I felt the same way about the two of you,” Bucky says. Or, at least, he’s pretty sure. “He did love you—probably still does.”

“He loves you, too.” Peggy sighs. “I went through old audio files this morning—on good days I record what happened so I can keep track. By the way, do you keep a diary? Anyways, Steve told me about the two of you a few months ago. It was probably around the same time you broke Hydra’s programming.”

“What did he tell you? And no, I don’t keep a diary.”

“You should. Write it in code if you must, but it does wonders.” Peggy waves a hand, dismissing that line of conversation. “He told me you were his first love.”

“He was mine, too,” he smiles. He doesn't know everything, but he does know that. There was no one like Steve.

"You haven’t seen him in a while, have you?”

“No, actually, I made sure he was away before I came here,” Bucky says. “I didn’t want to risk it.”

She visibly resists the urge to hit him on the forehead. “Risk what?”

“It’s all so messed up—how can I expect anything to go back to normal when I barely remember what that was?”

“He’s not the same, either. You’ll find something different together.”

“It’s more than that…” He hesitates. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

She rolls her eyes, and for a moment, he expects her to give him a degrading, yet uplifting, speech about how he’s braver than this. “If you think he won’t want to help you, I suppose you don’t know him that well.”

“I know he’ll want to help, that’s the problem. I can’t explain it.”

She smiles, then. “That’s why you keep a diary. Explain it there, so you’ll have it ready when the time comes.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll think about the diary.” It didn't sound like a terrible idea. He’d just have to create a code no one would know—including him if he ever fell back into Hydra’s hands.

“Good. Now, tell me what you’ve been up to. If you haven’t been with Steve, you had to have been doing something.”

He tells her everything.


	11. Truth

There’s a journal with a tacky drawing of the White House in the motel’s lost and found bin sitting on the counter. It’s empty past the first few pages.

Before he can think too hard about it, it goes smoothly into his coat pocket. The bored receptionist doesn’t look up from her no-doubt thrilling crossword puzzle. She doesn’t notice him stealing a pen from an old coffee mug, either.

The motel’s 2nd floor, northernmost room is simple. It’s not the most removed room of the motel, but has the 2nd best vantage points. And, best of all, the squeakiest hinges. Sure, the lamp flickers and there’s a faint smell of mildew in the bathroom, but it’s functional and offers the best protection. It’s not the best position, which means it won’t be searched first, if anyone tries to find him.

There’s no cameras or listening devices, and he goes through every discovery trick he knows twice. Finally, he slides out of his boots and takes off the glove. He’s lucky his metal arm can’t sweat, or he’d be worse than the entire New York City subways.

Speaking of, he’s not fantastic. He takes longer than necessary in the shower, half because of how low he has to stoop to get his hair wet enough to wash. He uncaps the shampoo bottle he brought and pours a generous amount into his hand. He likes this scent. It’s familiar in a way he can’t quite place, but it reminds him of someone baking apples.

Maybe Sarah, or his mother, or his sisters. Hell, maybe he learned it all on his own. He certainly didn’t know. He could kill a person a dozen ways using only his fucking elbow, but he didn’t remember baking.

The warm water stops being soothing. 

Bucky shuts it off, the pipes making their protest known. He bypasses the tacky notebook and pulls on a long t-shirt and soft pants. It’s drafty enough that he puts on some socks too. Somewhere in his mind, he can hear someone complaining about his cold feet. Who the hell was it? Steve? Probably. How can he know for sure?

Fuck it, he already has a notebook, he might as well keep a damn diary. 

He pulls out his stolen pen and a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he’d brought. He settles into the faded floral comforter. 

The words come slow, but they do come. It’s almost better because he writes in code. It gives his mind a chance to slow down. At first, he fills the pages with what he did today. Then the day before. Then the day before that. It’s monotonous, describing things he still remembers perfectly.

Only...it’s not so perfect. Little details escape him. 

The gaps make themselves apparent on the page, and nothing but white space and a shitty eagle watermark fills them. Inconsistencies arise within the entries. 

He knows the exact number of doors and windows and knives and weapons in the room. But how could he overlook the shade of Victoria’s shirt? What shoes did Lucas take off at Ellie’s door? How much of each ingredient did Ellie add when she cooked?. What song were they listening to as he and Charlie worked through her homework?

Human memories are fallible. He’s counted on that fact multiple times on missions.

But, he’s not human. Not in this sense—maybe in others, too, but that’s an existential crisis for another time. The point is, he’s supposed to have a perfect memory.

Why has he been paying more attention to what he doesn't remember than what he can remember? So why the fuck can’t he remember the things he wants to keep?

* * *

The next morning, Bucky meanders along the route he’d chosen on the bus: the least efficient to get to the National Mall. 

He stops in a Starbucks and orders what the person in front of him got—a hot caramel macchiato—and cradles it in his gloved hand as he walks. Thankfully, the morning is brisk enough that no one questions his gloves. It’s getting cold enough that he’ll need to think about a winter coat, soon.

He can worry about it when he gets back. Now, though. Now he’s going to his own memorial. The walk is nice, even if with every step, he wants to turn around and run. No, even as his feet turn unwilling, he forces them to continue. He owes it to Bee.

The Howling Commandos memorial is just as stunning as he remembered it. He'd known Bee's designs were incredible, but now that he knows who she is to him...

The wind whispers through the trees and grass, and there’s a peace here. It’s something that even the joggers and walkers can’t disturb. 

Perhaps, if he’d never gotten captured in the first place—if he’d survived—he would have been here for it’s opening. Or maybe he and the other Howlies would have come here on their own. Privately, to mourn for everything lost in the war. For what they brought back.

Perhaps, this is what those who fought in Vietnam, or Korea did. Maybe David came here when he came home. Maybe people come to this place with the intention of leaving it all behind. It’s a nice thought.

The entrance is exactly how he remembers it—minus a kindly man named Elijah, of course.

He climbs the steps.

The statues of his old friends stand in a circle facing the reflecting pool, a space for him on Steve’s left. Each of them are the height he remembers them at, in the uniforms he remembers so well. Worn ever so incorrectly so as to not get reprimanded for it.

From the outline of their clothes, none of them carry weapons. Either it was that they simply didn’t wear them for when they sat for the artists, or…

Or Bee wanted it to be a statement. Even though they’re still wearing the uniforms, still carrying the war on them...they’ve left that life behind.

Even with them facing away, he knows each of them. Steve, in the middle, is tall—still a strange sight, for while he always stood tall and his presence filled the room to the brim, he wasn’t actually that tall until the war.

Gabe, Dugan, Dernier are on Steve’s right. The three of them are leaning towards each other, as if in the middle of laughing at a truly awful joke. Gabe probably started it, and Dernier probably interrupted with the worst punchline possible.

There’s an empty circle on Steve’s left, and Bucky knows that’s where he was meant to stand. Even though Steve’s hearing was perfect with the serum, he never got out of the habit of standing so his bad ear would pick up what he said.

Moritia and Falsworth are next to the empty spot. They’re slightly more official looking than the other two, but Moritia’s right hand is tapping at the back of the other one, and Falsworth’s head is tilted. They’re debating something, then. Probably something philosophical that Bucky would never truly understand, even though he would have been adding his own input.

He should have been adding his own input.

He steps into the space Bee had left for him.

If they were here, Falsworth would complain about the hot sun, and Dernier would turn it into a dirty joke. They’d pretend to be serious about it, keeping the gag running as long as they can. But Dugan would break into laughter first at some comment from Gabe, which would send the rest of them into peals of laughter. 

Steve would be the first to recover, and would say something in such a deadpan it sets the rest of them off again.

The laughter cuts off as he hears footsteps behind him—a steady, careful tread that tells him the person is intentionally trying to be quiet. Similar to Ellie’s when she’s trying not to spook him. The person is weary of him, but attempting to not appear as a threat. He stops 12 feet away from him. “Should I be worried?”

He turns, stepping out of line with the rest of the Howlies. “Sam Wilson,” Bucky says.

He’s wearing athletic pants, a long sleeved Army t-shirt, and running shoes. There’s an outline in his pockets. Probably a wallet, keys, his phone in the left, and a 3 inch pocket knife in the other. It indicates he’s right handed and proficient in a fight in close quarters. 

But he already knew that. Even without the wing suit, his pararescue and army training were evident in their fight on the bridge.

“Uh-huh.” Wilson looks him up and down, scanning him for weapons. “And who are you?”

“Bucky,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Why’s that?” His voice and expression give nothing away—impressive.

“I understand you found some of the more secret Hydra bases. I thought you would have gone with.”

“Yeah, we got a tip from JARVIS. You have anything to do with that?”

“I sent it,” Buck says. “I heard you and Steve were trying to hunt down the last Hydra bases.”

“We were trying to find you,” Sam says. He shakes his head at Bucky’s surprised look. “Idiots, honestly.”

“Me?”

“You run off, we don’t know what condition you’re in or what you’ll do, and you expect Steve to just leave you be?”

Fuck, he really should have thought of that. It’s not like he knew enough about him and Steve to make that conclusion on his own. He shrugs his shoulders.

Sam nods, examining him. But not as a threat—it’s more like he wants to find evidence he’s human. His handlers would give him the same look, only they’d want to extinguish anything they found. 

Bucky gives a half smile and nods to his shirt. “You were in the Army?”

That earns him an even stranger look, like he’s a pigeon that learned how to recite Ellie’s novels. “Yeah. 58th Pararescue. You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“It was on your Facebook,” Bucky says. One night, he’d wanted to figure out who exactly knew he was also the Winter Soldier and if they’d want to capture him. Sam was the only one that also had social media. He didn’t count Natasha, whose pages were so cultivated towards various personas it probably wasn’t real. “Really. It wasn’t even in the mission briefing—those were always shit.”

Sam chuckles. It’s forced, but it’s a nice gesture all the same. “I guess that’s true no matter who’s giving them to you.” He looks between the statues and Bucky and his expression softens. “Steve would come here a lot while he still lived here.”

He turns around to look at it. “My sister designed it.”

Sam comes up next to him, intentionally making his footsteps louder. He looks around, taking in the memorial as if for the first time, impressed. “No shit.”

“Yeah. She always wanted to be an architect. And she was. From what I’ve seen, her projects are incredible.”

He nods in understanding, and he doesn’t think it’s fake. “I’m sorry you weren’t there for it.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment longer. “Thanks. I guess...I guess I’m glad they all found happiness.”

Sam nods. There’s no way he could possibly understand, so he isn’t trying to. But he’s listening. And that counts for everything. “Have you?”

“I’m—” He still wakes up from nightmares most nights, but he’s also laughed more in the last few months than he has in years. “I’m getting there.”

“Good.” He hesitates, but telegraphs that he’s about to clap him on the shoulder. “Listen, I usually don’t play therapist with people, but have you found some way to deal with…?”

Bucky grins. “How I”m a clusterfuck of a human being?”

Sam lets out a low laugh, leaning backwards with it. He shoves Bucky a little and drops his hand. “I was going to say trauma, but that works, too. Where did you even hear clusterfuck?”

He debates whether he should be honest. Logically, there are many cons to giving up any indication of where he lives. It’s a short debate, though. “I’m renting an apartment building, and a couple of kids live there.”

“Where did kids hear the word clusterfuck? How old are they?”

Bucky shrugs. “They’re teenagers, I guess, but everyone’s a kid to me,”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Not this. I get enough of it from Steve. And my Mom for that matter.”

Bucky thinks he’s successfully dodged the line of conversation, but to no anvil.

“So? How are you dealing with everything?”

“Great,” he lies. Sure, he’s better, but that’s a low standard for comparison and he knows it. He runs a gloved hand through his hair. Sam needs to trust him if there’s a chance he’ll leave him alone after this. “I’m thinking about going to a group therapy session. Any thoughts? Not professionally, of course.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

“No, actually, it might help. I just didn’t expect it. Sometimes it takes years for someone to be open to therapy,” Sam says. 

Bucky thinks of David, and how it’s taken him this long to be willing to try it. Even that, it’s probably because he guessed Bucky wouldn’t approach it on his own. Probably with no small amount of pushing from Victoria.

They stand there in silence for a few minutes. It’s not uncomfortable.

The statues of his old friends stand before him, facing the morning sun.

They got to move on. Even as statues, they got to leave the war behind. He didn’t. Can’t even do it now, not when there’s a real possibility people are trying to recapture him. Yeah, he mentioned the therapy because it’s strategically the best way for Sam to trust him, but what if it actually works? 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

“I’ve got to be honest with you, James,” David says. They’d decided to travel by subway and foot on account of neither of them owning a car. Well, technically, Bucky had just purchased an old, beat up sedan just in case he’d need it. But that was in an abandoned parking lot in Jersey. “I didn’t think you’d take me up on it.”

“Neither did I,” Bucky says. “But I asked a friend about it and he thought it was a good idea.”

David’s look of surprise is hard to miss.

"What?”

“Nothing, just...you have friends?” He can only keep a serious face for a few seconds before he breaks out into a grin. 

He rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh. “A few. I saw them when I went to DC.”

“More than one?” He drops the teasing and lets their shoulders knock together. “Hey, I’m glad. The building is great, but you should have friends your own age.”

Bucky grins. “I’m actually older than Ellie.”

“Not this again,” he groans. “You’re a millennial, just accept it.”

“Never. And what the hell is a millennial?”

“Holy shit, man, you’re the definition of one.”

He fucking hopes not, considering he’s a 97 year old runaway assassin. There better not be a whole group for it. But he lets David explain the ins and outs of the generation gaps until they get there. The Brooklyn VA hospital was...daunting to say the least.

Not in its size, although it’s huge. But it’s almost ordinary. The gray concrete had rows of windows on each side—like every other tall-as-fuck building these days. The trees were just starting to turn orange—the only color for miles. The building leeched it from the air, making even those trees lackluster and dull.

Or maybe that was his rising heartbeat talking. 

“Nervous?” David asks, wringing his hands together. They’d paused without meaning to, staring up at the building that was supposed to be the location of all their emotional healing.

“People are afraid of stupid things, aren’t they?” 

He chuckles tightly. “I was fucking lost at sea and kept my head on straight, and this is what gets me?”

Once, Bucky might have been on too many drugs, or had too few memories, or had no way of knowing that what was happening wasn’t normal—but there were moments of sheer terror. Times when the conditioning had broken just enough...

He shakes off the memories.

“I know the feeling,” Bucky says.

"You know, I’ve been here before? Tried a few times over the years to stick with group, but it just…”

“You think that if you ignore it, it’ll go away.”

“Yeah, and maybe no one can see how bad it is. That Lucas and my students won’t see me as insane, or Victoria won’t notice when I don’t sleep.”

There’s nothing to say, so he doesn’t. It’s like a funeral procession as they enter the building. 

He diligently fills out the paperwork alongside David. Of course, he’s using an identity specifically crafted around what his neighbors know about him. The thought of using his real name and information makes him grin.

He can imagine filling out, “Birthdate: March 10, 1917,” and giving the paperwork back with a straight face. Yeah, he’s just got one of those young faces. 

How the hell is he here? It’s fucking weird that he even made it out of the war. There were times when he never thought the war would end, that he’d never leave the army.

Wait did he? Do people declared MIA who return still have to report to someone? Oh, fuck no. He can’t even imagine reporting to a CO a third of his age.

David looks over at him, his eyes already crinkling with laughter. “Something funny?”

“I never would have guessed I’d be here.”

"I know. The first time I came, I couldn’t stand it more than a month. I guess I just wasn't ready for it.”

“Now it is?”

David claps him on the shoulder. “Guess we’ll find out, right?”

A tense silence settles over them as they reluctantly walked into the meeting room. It was small, but the large panel of windows and soft blue paint made it seem brighter than it was. There were pictures of different war memorials, and his eyes catch the section of the Howling Commandos memorial.

Of fucking course.

The picture must have been taken at sunrise in early spring, because the lighting and dewy ground couldn’t be from any other time. He subtly leads David over to a seat where it’s not in view. As a bonus, they’re facing the door.

It seems like this is a popular spot, because the others in the group gravitate towards it. Interestingly enough, most that come in try to inconspicuously check the room for exits. Finally, all 12 people are there, and take their seats.

The woman in a green blouse and tweed dress pants stands up. Her black, curly hair hangs down in braids. She’s sitting with the door to her right and the wall of windows behind her. She addresses the group. “Thank you all for joining us tonight. I’m Marissa and I’ll be guiding you through these meetings—but it’s important you all understand that you will be the ones leading the group.”

She explains the basics of the group. That this is a place for them to learn from each other’s experiences and help ;each other recover from their service. What they talk about has to stay within the group, and it’s why she doesn’t recommend meeting outside of the group. 

He and David exchange a look, like they’re two kids sneaking candy, and Bucky nods. He’s rather good with compartmentalizing. And keeping things secret. It’s always served him fairly well.

Marissa goes on to tell them that they won’t be pushed to talk about things they’re not ready for in group. “But, I hope you all feel comfortable enough to share, and learn from each other’s experiences.”

A groan travels the room as she says, “Let’s start with ice breakers.”

Bucky’s not sure what that’s about, but joins in, rolling his eyes at David. They go around in a circle:

Jenna, a medic in the Army whose favorite fruit is apples.

Becker, who was in the Air Force, who loves bananas.

Jack, Army, pomegranates. 

David’s favorite fruit are blueberries, which Bucky should have known.

It’s too mundane to sit here and say, “I’m James, I was in the Army. Uh, my favorite fruit is apples.” It’s surreal to be here when everything he’s done indicates he should be back on ice, or on a table, or at the bottom of a cliff.

At last, they’ve gone through everyone.

And...it’s silent. Everyone looks around, or at their feet, or at the therapist, who smiles. She knows exactly how to get them all to talk, and this is it. People will say anything if it’s quiet enough.

David chuckles, his deep laugh putting them all at ease, “You know, I’m a teacher, and class discussions aren’t as awkward as this.”

"I thought this felt familiar.” Evan (who’s favorite fruit was lemons) fiddles with his wedding ring. “I, um, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Anyone going through anything similar?”

The sharing begins. Hesitantly, Sylvia, a woman who was in the Air Force, says she can relate to that, and offers some breathing exercises that makes her relaxed. Bucky finds himself nodding along.

When the conversation lulls after someone says they can barely do things they’ve enjoyed for years if it’s in a crowded place. He’s surprised when he speaks up. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be in crowds like I used to.”

It was a small admission. Really, it was nothing that could be used against him. Yet…

Yet it was true. 

From what he can remember, he used to love dance halls and expositions and even the crowded mess hall. He thrived off of their energy, loved the way he was a part of something. He’d loved dancing the night away and working at the docks and fighting with his men. There was nothing like it, the way he responded to the crowd and the crowd responded to him.

But now, even the tiny coffee shop verged on too much. There were too many possibilities that someone had followed him. Too many people who might realize what he’d done.

David catches his eyes in understanding. 

He understood, if anyone could understand how hard it was to adjust after any service, let alone his. Still, Bucky can’t relate to everything David’s going through.

Even though they could all relate best to each other, they could not truly understand what each other had gone through. It was such a goddamn paradox that he’s here, supposed to give advice to others when he was in dire need of it.

Still...he was here, wasn’t he? As Sam had said, it couldn’t hurt to be here. And if the way some of the weight on his shoulders began to lift was any indication, it didn’t.

When he gets back to the apartment, Bucky pulls out the tacky White House journal and writes and writes and writes.


	12. Discovery

Bucky’s in a strange mood the next few days. He can’t quite place it, but he outright cackles at an old recording of the Who’s on First skit.

“Come on, you kids haven’t seen it before?” Bucky asks as Charlie and Lucas send him a sideways glance. He’d found an audio recording of it the previous night and had emailed it to them. Of course, they’d questioned him about it the next morning as they were leaving for school.

But he can't help it if they didn’t know some of the greatest humor of all time. It had been a running joke with his unit in basic training, where they’d try to trick each other into questions like that without the officers knowing.

Naturally, they’d figured it out pretty quickly, but a few of them even played along. After all, it was just a bit of harmless fun during a shitty time.

The kids exchange a look, and Charlie snickers. “You’re old, James.”

Bucky grins, “Thank you for noticing, finally.”

Lucas’ teeth chatter despite the way he stubbornly refuses to let it show. The damn idiot isn’t even wearing a long sleeved shirt.

“You certainly look warm,” Bucky says. “Definitely dressed for the weather.”

“I got enough of that from my mom today,” Lucas huffs.

“She’s smart,” Charlie says, bundled up in a thick sweater. “You don’t really have room to talk, though.”

"What do you mean? I’m fine. I’m even wearing gloves.”

"You always wear gloves, that’s not a new thing. You’re not even wearing a coat.”

“I haven’t had time to get one.” Bucky says. “Besides, where do you even get one around here.”

Charlie’s eyes widen, and he can practically feel the excitement radiating from her. “Have you been shopping since you’ve been here?”

“Yeah,” he lies.

Charlie is too smart for her own good, and catches on immediately. Before he knows it, he’s roped into letting her take him shopping, and there’s talks of something called a pinterest board.

“What’s your budget?”

“Um.” How much do clothes cost these days? His are all stolen. “I’ve got enough saved up from the Army for a shopping trip, surely.”

Charlie grins, probably at the thought at spending someone else’s money without much of a limit. “I’ve got just the place. Lucas, do you want to come? What are you doing on Saturday?”

He shrugs. “Not much, so sure. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her from going too far.”

They part ways at the next block, them off to school and him off to the coffee shop. The last thing he hears is Charlie protesting, “There’s not a too far, come on, he thinks hoodies are a fashion statement.”

Refusing to be insulted—hoodies are simply practical for a number of reasons—he pushes aside the doubts that maybe, it’s a bad idea to go somewhere so public. But maybe it’ll be fun.

Certainly better than taking another patrol, or updating his go-bags, or scrolling the Hydra chat rooms, or sending new locations to JARVIS, or stalking the Avengers’ social media and hidden web activity. Or at least, more normal.

He notices Max as he walks into the coffee shop. It’s less crowded than usual today, so he can tell the instant Max noticeably does not look at him when he waves.. 

He orders the barista’s favorite drink—whatever the hell a pumpkin spice latte is—and waits by the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, Max tries to be inconspicuous in trying to appear like he hasn’t noticed him.

When his drink comes, he wanders over to Max’s table as he normally would. “Hey there, I haven’t seen you here in awhile.”

Max smiles, but his eyes don’t crinkle “Oh, you know. I’ve been busy with school.”

He’s not stupid enough to talk about Hydra so publicly, so he asks, “Still working on that investigation piece?”

And there it is. It’s the tiniest shift, the tiniest glance around, the tiniest shaking of his hands. He’s scared. “Yeah, it’s coming along great.”

Bucky takes a sip of his drink. It’s actually quite good. He nods. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve found some really big stuff.” 

The very thought sends a chill down his spine. What could he discover about Hydra that isn’t already public knowledge? After all, most of the world knows they’ve infiltrated every source of power and have been silently taking it over for decades. Why is Max so afraid? “Well, you can never be too careful with that kind of information. They’re a nasty group.”

“I know,” Max says, wearily. Then, he catches himself. “I mean…”

Can he risk giving up what he knows, just to try and understand what Max knows? Does he want to know what he found out? He can guess, and none of them are remotely pleasant.

He never knew more than what happened to him—and even then, he barely understood what was going on. But still..the secret projects weren’t kept too far apart, and his were not the only screams that echoed through hidden hallways.

“You want to talk about it?” Not that Bucky does, but Max can’t exactly go around telling just anyone shit like this.

“Not really,” Max says, then he sighs. “I should, though. Do you mind? It’s pretty fucked.”

Bucky can’t imagine a single thing about Hydra that isn’t fucked. He glances around—it isn’t crowded, but sometimes that is even worse. Every memory he has of being any type of soldier screamed not to discuss confidential information in a place like this. “My place is secure.”

Max makes a face. “Ok, James Bond.”

He rolls his eyes despite not understanding the reference. “You want to test how good they are?”

Shaking his head, he starts packing his stuff up. “You at least got any beers?”

“I don’t drink,” Bucky says. “I’ve only got Capri Suns.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he follows Bucky when he leaves.

* * *

Max tries to be inconspicuous about looking around, and noticeably does not make a comment. His apartment isn’t the well-worn style of Ellie’s, although his furniture is well worn. It’s not the stylishly decorated of Victoria, David, and Lucas’, or even the personal touches that Theo and Charlie took so much time with.

Charlie once teased him on his “frat boy” decor style, but he’s not quite sure what it means. Although, apparently, it has something to do with the fact that not a single thing in his apartment matches and nothing is being used for its original purpose.

The wood pallets he found one day, as well as an alarmingly large collection of blankets make up his couch. There’s the shaky card table with a stack of magazines under the left leg. A few old jam jars—both from what he’s used and from the dumpsters—are his cups. The rest of his cutlery is a diverse mix of take out containers, chipped plates he’d found at a resale store, and bent silverware. Those were once significantly less crooked than they are now. 

Personally, he blames his “frat boy” decor on the fact he didn’t know kitchenware came in sets. He wouldn’t have bought one anyways, though. $300 for a set of matching pans, spoons, and plates? No thank you, he’s doing just fine.

Bucky does, actually, have Capri Suns. And half the reason was because an annoying man in the store was loudly explaining to his girlfriend how there was nothing but sugars in it, and there was no reason a grown adult would buy them. He had nothing against sugars and annoying random strangers.

Besides, having one next to his bed was the only thing strange and indulgent enough that he knows Hydra would have never let him have it. Theo’s plant still sat on his windowsill, but it wasn’t enough. Even the few times they’d tried to trick him into believing he’d escaped, they’d never given him fucking juice boxes.

You were serious?”

“You don’t want one?” Max is too wise to refuse, so he tosses one to him. “What did you find?”

Bucky can’t bring himself to sit down, so he leans against the counter. He stops himself from fiddling with the straw wrapper, however. That would give away too much of his nerves.

“It’s…holy shit. I don’t even know how to say it. It doesn’t even sound real.” Max paces, and every once in a while, he’ll open his mouth to begin, only to cut himself off. 

Bucky’s starting on his second juice box when he finally stops.

“You know who Zola and Schmidt and Erkstein are, right?”

He nods, a pool of dread beginning to form. 

“They were working on a super soldier serum before the one that made Captain America, and experimented on prisoners of war,” Max says. His voice is barely there, but he continues. “That’s not even the worst part. I...I think they might have succeeded.”

His hands are too cold, his heart pounds with enough adrenaline to make him think the drug implants are back. But his voice is remarkably steady. “Are you sure?”

“I…”

“Max. You have to be sure about this.”

“I….yes. I found an instruction manual and it only mentioned an Asset with a metal arm, but there’s no way he’s not enhanced. Not with the way they describe his abilities…”

Bucky’s blood runs cold. He knows what it says even as Max continues, even when he starts quoting that damned book he found all those months ago. 

“I mean, really, they say he needs 7000 calories a day, but can survive off of less than a quarter of that,” Max says. 

He’s wrong. Bucky is functional at a quarter, but can survive on even less. He would know.

"What kind of person is that?”

It takes him a second to realize the question was aimed at him. “A scary, very well protected one.”

“Well protected? The things they say he’s capable of...he’s a one man army.”

Bucky nods. “What lengths do you think Hydra will go to in order to keep information about him from being exposed?”

Max opens his mouth to respond.

“Triple it.” Bucky can’t imagine how he found it, but now that he has...they’re both fucked. “They won’t want this getting out.”

“It has to. It’s my responsibility as a journalist,” he says.

Even if it would be more difficult to remain undiscovered if he wasn’t their pet assassin, they’re disorganized, and Max hasn’t actually published it yet...he was in danger for just knowing this information.

Knowing about him and what he’s done.

Bucky turns around under the excuse of throwing away his fucking juice box. It just couldn't be as easy as keeping a juice box next to his bed to remind him he wasn’t still under Hydra’s power. No. He always would be.

He’d never escape them, would he?

“You’re putting yourself in so much danger.” His voice is smaller than he ever remembered it being, and he can’t stop it from wavering. “They’ve stayed hidden for so long, how easy do you think it would be to keep you from sharing this with anyone?”

Max, the stubborn asshole, sets his jaw. It is such a _Steve_ thing to do, Bucky wants to punch that look right off of him. Why do his friends always have to be the noble ones? Why do they always have to do what was right?

Bucky sets his jaw right back at him, but it is a losing battle of wills from the start. He shakes his head instead. “Is that laptop the only copy of your research?”

"Yeah. I keep forgetting to back it up.” He steps closer to it. “You’re not going to destroy it, are you?”

“No, give it to me.”

Max eyes him, suspicious.

Bucky sighs. “I’m going to place an encryption on it, so it can’t be tracked or accessed from another location. Then I’m going to set the trackers in your computer and phone on a loop of your daily routine.”

“Oh,” Max doesn’t know what to say for a long moment. “You can do that?”

“Yep. Give it.”

He considers it. “They teach that in the Army?”

“Nope.”

Apparently that’s good enough for Max. Bucky gets to work.

Alright, so he’s a liar, okay? So he doesn’t tell Max that he also installed his own tracker on Max’ phone and computer—closed circuit that’s hidden within his own files—just in case. 

But he can’t tell Max that, can he? He sure as hell wouldn’t believe it was out for his protection so when Hydra tries something—and they will, it’s only a matter of time—Bucky knows.

And can return some of the Hell they gave him for all those decades. 

* * *

* * *

Winifred Barnes was friends with a tailor who lived nearby, and for his 18th birthday a couple of years ago, she’d given him a suit. Apparently, it just wasn’t right for a man to not have a suit that fit him. Bucky doesn’t really understand the reasoning behind it, but he has to admit, he looks good.

Steve doesn’t have a suit that really fits him all that well. It was a hand me down from a nurse’s son Sarah worked with, and she’d tried her best to make it fit, but Steve still drowns in the fabric. 

Bucky still thought he looked good, though, not that he’d tell Steve that. It would only make him go on another tirade against it. He’d rant and rant about how he looked like an alley cat in a too-large shopping bag.

He disagrees. What makes him look like an alley cat is the way he ends up in skirmishes at least once a week. 

But he’s promised not to today, as they’re taking Becca window shopping for her birthday. Hell, both Steve and Bucky were making more money because of the new minimum wage, so they might even be able to buy something.

Something small, perhaps.

She’s all decked out for dancing in her flowing dress. It’s got a blue floral pattern, puffed up sleeves, and a belt. If he didn’t know her so well, he wouldn’t even notice that it was a dress she’s had for years but alters all the time to fit the current trends.

And with her hair in a fancy-looking updo, the ladies they pass hardly notice they don’t belong with them. Even the few store clerks they’d seen when they got the courage to go into a shop hadn’t said much.

Sure, they’d insulted several shopkeepers selling the glittering jewels Bucky pretended he was interested in before proclaiming nothing here would do for his sweetheart—she had much finer tastes. 

The stiff backed woman had given the most outrageously expensive hairpins to Becca to try on, only for her to simper and say Steve’s father would never approve of her spending their money like that. 

And Steve...well, he’d actually made friends with a woman selling custom made armoires when she’d shown him her collection and he said he could never hope to paint anything as lovely as she did. Bucky thinks he might have gotten art lessons from it.

All together, it was a lot of laughing behind shopkeepers' backs and pretending to be richer than they were. Much, much richer.

Becca had a fantastic time, right up until the owner of a dress shop had berated her for her last year’s dropped waist and how evident her mediocre tailor skills are. She’s still rattled on the way back. Her left arm in Steve’s, she leans in to whisper, “They’re all staring at me, I can tell.”

Steve glances around them. “Where?”

Bucky sighs. “Nowhere. You both look fine.”

"Easy for you to say.” Becca says. “I wanted to convince you two to take me dancing on the way back, but we probably can’t even get in.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. Of course he wants to go dancing. “Of course we can. If we pretend we belong, no one else will question it. And we do belong here—Steve, what was it you were saying? How superficial divides make people powerless against their oppressors?”

Becca looks at Steve, a glint in her eyes. “Where’d he learn something like that?”

“I have no idea,” he says.

“Oh yeah. Couldn’t be all those meetings you go to with Alice and Helen,” Bucky says.

Becca reaches over and flicks Bucky on the arm. “You go to them too, you twit.”

“Because we go dancing afterwards.”

Steve scoffs, “You love them, come on. It’s interesting stuff.”

Oh, yes, it was downright fascinating. But what’s even better is watching Steve at those meetings. His eyes light up and he’s sitting on the edge of his seat listening to people talk about everything the future could be.

The glow doesn’t fade for hours. It’s like Steve’s drunk on optimism and the very city streets are the most wondrous places to be. Between, during, and after dances they’ll talk about what they heard, their own ideas. It was thrilling.

“Yeah, I don’t mind them,” Bucky says. 

“Finally. I swear, sometimes you two love to fight. It’s like you’re an old married couple,” Becca says.

The three of them falter, realizing what Becca’s saying. It’s not even anything wrong—ever since they moved in together, their bickering only got worse. But it’s the other thing that makes them stumble.

Becca doesn’t know they’re together. They hadn’t meant to keep their relationship such a secret, it just happened. Besides, they didn’t know how Bucky’s parents would react, and it wasn’t a secret they could force her to hide.

She’s the first to recover. “Which is fine. If you really were a married couple.”

She’s too tall for the two of them to exchange a look, but Bucky feels Steve’s eyes on him.

“That’s good,” Steve says slowly.

Bucky nudges her. “And however you feel about people is fine, too.”

The thing about the Barnes family is that they’re great at dealing with others’ emotions. Bucky can handle anyone crying to him—and has—but if it’s him feeling something? No, thanks. He’d much rather pretend it doesn’t exist.

They’re all just the same. When Sarah died a couple of years back, his family pushed aside whatever they were feeling to help Bucky, who had lost a second mother. And he’d pushed aside what he was feeling to help Steve. That’s just how the Barnes’ were.

And Steve? He’s more likely to fight his emotions than to actually let himself feel them.

“Alright,” Becca said. “Anyways, you fellas want to go dancing?”

They both breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Let’s go dancing,” Steve says. And for once, it doesn’t sound like he’s headed to his deathbed.

The club they settle on isn’t especially fancy, but it’s somewhere in the middle. 

Rich blue drapes along the walls, creating alcoves for those who did not come for dancing. Or, rather, a different type of dance. The 3 piece band is playing an up beat old song that stopped being current months ago. But still, Bucky remembers how to dance to it.

“Well, fellas, we didn’t come to stand here. Who’s up for a dance?”

Steve’s turns to Bucky. “Go, have fun.”

Even as she’s taking his hand, she’s saying to Steve, “Fine, but you’re going to dance tonight.”

"Yes ma’am,” he says.

Bucky meets his eyes just to make sure he’s actually alright with it. There’s no resentment, nothing even bored hiding there, so he lets her drag him to the dance floor. Not that he was really resisting, anyways.

He starts off slow—he’s not going to wear them both out on the first dance of the night after all. She takes to it easily, and even starts adding in her own flair. 

They make it through the one song before they’re trying to outdo each other. Their form goes to shit and she throws her head back and laughs when he twirls her for the third time in a row. She giggles, her laugh harmonizing with the music. “Bucky!” 

When they’re facing each other once more, she takes it upon herself to spin _him_ , and he laughs at how he has to duck to fit under her arm.

She takes the lead, and Bucky’s going to have to ask where she learned the steps. But he’s happy to let her take him around the dance floor, adding in extra kicks and spins and whatever the hell she feels like. 

When at last, the band plays a slow song, they just sway, and she’s breathing hard into his shoulder.

The rest of the dancers have left a wide berth around them, and some even shoot dirty looks at them.

Breathing hard, they make their way to the edge of the floor. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

“I do go out, you know.”

“Do you, now?”

She rolls her eyes and hits him lightly on the arm. 

“Is it serious with anyone?” Bucky asks. He’s been out of the gossip circles for kids Becca’s age for a while now, but surely he would have heard something.

Becca shrugs. “Not really, I’ve just been dating around.”

“Good, that’s what I did. You make sure they treat you right.”

She shakes her head in exasperation, but agrees. Then the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Are you serious with anyone?”

Of course, he couldn’t have expected her not to ask. “A few years, now, actually.” There’s something freeing

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really? That long?”

“Had feelings for a lot longer, though,” Bucky says. “I guess I just never realized it.”

She shakes her head and flicks him on the arm. “You’re so smart, but sometimes…”

“I know I know, I should have seen it.”

“Well I’m glad you finally did. And I think he was always as slow with it as you were.”

A young man is hovering nearby. He looks like he’s trying to gather the courage to ask Becca for a dance. He has wildly curly hair, and he’s dressed like he’s never seen clothes before. It’s rather charming, actually, but not for his sister. Any man who doesn’t put effort into his appearance is certainly losing points in his book.

Becca notices him seconds after, and then pretends not to. “I’m not about to do all the work for him, now am I?”

From the corner of his eye, he looks the man up and down. “You sure you want him?”

“It’s dancing Bucky, I’ll be fine. Go.”

Well alright, then. He makes his way to the furthest outskirts of the room. Sure enough, Steve is in one of the small tables, a half filled glass of cheap beer next to him. He’s sketching away on an old newspaper he must have found and his hands are already inkstained.

“Where did Becca go?”

“She wanted some guy to ask her to dance,” Bucky says. He sits down facing the room, keeping an eye out for her in the crowd. Not that she can’t handle herself, but…

“You’re worried?”

“Of course I am,” Bucky says. 

He catches sight of her, and she’s laughing at something. His hand is around her waist and he knows the look in his eye. “She’s growing up, isn’t she?”

“So are we, pal,” Steve says. 

“Yeah I guess. It’s different with her, though.”

He makes idle marks on the newspaper and doesn't say anything for a long time. “You know, Bee asked if I’d ever kissed anyone the other day.”

His eyes widens. “She did not. What did you say?”

“Well I have, so I told her the truth,” Steve says. His fingers ghost over the headline. It’s another article about rising violence in Europe. There’s violence everywhere it seems. It can’t even be escaped in a fancy dance hall. “What kind of world are we growing up in?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky covered Steve’s hand with his own. “But at least it’s together, right?”

His thumb ran over Bucky’s hand. Dance halls were rarely the place for solemnity, but this one little table did just fine. 

Steve stands up and tucks the pen away in his jacket pocket. “Care to teach me to dance?”

Bucky grins at the dozens of times they’ve tried. Steve is just that bad of a dancer, that nothing ever sticks. He takes his hand. 

The newspaper—drawing, article and all—remains forgotten on the table.

* * *

Today is not for vengeance, or violence, or dwelling. No, today is for shopping. 

Charlie tells Ellie her plan, and she looks far too gleeful at his uncomfortable look and her thrilled one. 

"What brought this on? Not that I’m complaining,” Ellie says, turning to Bucky. “Dear, you can do so much better.”

“Right? That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Charlie says. “Besides, you’ve helped me so much, I wanted to return the favor.”

And how could he say no to that? He and Lucas exchanged a look along that line. He was sure a 15 year old kid had better things to do on a Saturday morning, but here he was. 

But because he’s a 15 year old kid, he can’t let the sweet moment pass. “You’re just happy because he doesn’t have a budget.”

Damn, now he’s made her feel bad. Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’ll spend it a whole lot better than I would. One time, my friend and I went to Coney Island and I busted all our money for the way back trying to impress some girl on the games.”

Ellie raises her eyebrows. “Did it work?”

“I don’t remember,” Bucky laughs. “But my friend and I snuck into the back of an ice cream truck headed our way.”

“There’ll be none of that today I’m sure.” She sends the three of them a stern look, and Bucky has no doubt she had some way of making sure.

“Yes ma’am, we’ll be on our best behavior, won’t we?”

Charlie and Lucas nod next to him, the three of them like cartoon characters just waiting to get away with something. Not that he’s about to destroy Ellie, Theo, David, adn Victoria’s trust in him, but some a day off and some harmless fun is a nice change of pace.

Bucky’s enhanced hearing is the only thing that lets him hear Ellie outright _giggling_ as they make their way down the street. And what an odd trio they are.

Charlie, a high school junior who wants to avoid thinking about school or the future. Lucas, a 15 year old who’s snarky and doesn’t try too hard in school—and thinks he is hiding bruised ribs successfully. And Bucky, a former brainwashed assassin and probable war criminal who is masquerading as a normal Army vet.

It leaves him with one thought: what the hell is he doing here?

The subway is crowded today.

Or, more probably, it is always crowded. Exactly the reason Bucky usually avoids it. There are 4 people arguing on the phone, 19 texting, 9 playing games on the phone, 3 people reading newspapers, 5 reading magazines, 2 reading books, and a group of 7 loudly talking about a new show. 

And Charlie and Lucas, exchanging an unreadable look. It was not a threatening look, just a silent conversation between them. 

Lucas leads them to the corner of the subway compartment—good. Finally, someone knows a thing or two about angles. His gaze flicks between the people around them and the kids in front of him. His smile is thin. 

He tracks Lucas as he sits down next to him. “You know,” he starts. “I don’t know what is about that subway smell that makes it so familiar.”

"It’s always smelled this way. Used to be a lot worse until people realize you need ventilation. It used to be awful for people with bad lungs,” Bucky says. Him and Steve never used to take it unless it was too far to go on foot. New York never smelled the cleanest, but at least there was the hope open air will make it better. 

They exchanged a look Bucky could not decipher. He scans the car. Typical New Yorkers minding their own business. He could probably admit he was a world class assassin and start tap dancing, and no one would blink an eye. 

Charlie sits on the other side of him. “Did it always look this way?”

“No, there’s different graffiti. Different symbols and all that,” Bucky says. 

“What about sound?” Lucas presses.

“Pretty similar—“ Bucky cuts himself off. How could he be so foolish? He is getting rusty. “What are you doing?”

They do their best to look as innocent as possible. Which, of course, makes them look even more suspicious. 

He repeats it. “What are you doing?”

Lucas folds. “Ok fine, I was trying to get you to notice your surroundings.”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” Bucky says.

“I don’t know how it works, but if you’re with someone who’s sensing too much, you’re supposed to get them to talk about their surroundings,” Lucas says. “My dad told us it works for him, so I figured it would help you.”

That was...actually very sweet. 

“Um,” Bucky says. “Thanks.” They both keep looking at him, as if watching for the moment he’ll implode. “Do you do that for him a lot?”

Lucas shrugs, which he takes to mean as a resounding yes. “Sometimes. I don’t really know what difference it makes.”

His shoulders loosen. Being questioned, staying on alert, strategizing constantly, those were the hard things. He had to learn how to do those, and while it’s second nature to him by now, it’ll never be as easy as this. Protecting someone, even from their own doubt, was the first thing he learned. “It helps, I know he appreciates it.”

He huffs.

“You think it doesn’t?”

“He still gets flashbacks and episodes and PTSD and everything right? How can it help if it’s not going away?”

“I don’t think it _can_ just go away. Believe me, I want it to, but it takes a lot more work than that.”

“Is that why you’ve been going to therapy with David?” Charlie asks. 

Bucky nods. He bites his lip, and can’t help thinking that it’s an uncalculated disadvantage that serves no purpose. He tries not to care. “I have to try, don’t I?”

She hesitates, then covers his shoulder with her hand. He shouldn’t be relieved at how obviously she telegraphs it.

Lucas slumps further down in his seat. “I wish my dad was.”

“Now hold on,” Bucky says. “Why do you think he’s not trying?”

"He’s been home for years and he’s never stuck with it before. He’ll stop going in a couple of weeks and then he’ll get worse.”

“Have you talked to him?” Bucky asks. Lucas shakes his head. “Ask him. He’s trying, but it’s not easy. It never will be.”

His nod is barely a tilt of his head, but it’s there.

They reach their stop, and Charlie programs the directions into her phone and leads them to a small storefront. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe the store could feel the weight of the skyscraper above it. The door squeaks as they enter. 

2 potential exits, three fake security cameras, enough merchandise to be hindering in a fight. 

“What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” Bucky says. “Where do we start?”

She dismisses the clerk’s offer to help and walks through the racks of 2nd hand clothes. Seemingly arbitrarily, she hands him items to hold. She gives him a tan and a gray thick coat, some long sleeved t-shirts in various colors, a few sweaters, and a couple of pairs of thick pants. He begins to notice the patterns. 

They’re all simple but not plain. The sweaters are in subdued colors. Nothing is too recognizable, but they’re nice looking. Bucky wonders when he became so easy to read. And then...

“Is that a Captain America shirt?” Bucky asks. Sure enough, it’s designed to look like his old tac suit during the war, and even has matching detachable gloves.

“You know another guy with an America themed shield?” Lucas asks.

“I don’t know if you should get that, for all we know, he could be Hydra,” Charlie says. “That’s probably why it was donated in the first place.”

“He’s not Hydra,” Bucky scoffs. He has dozens of their destroyed bases as proof.

He adds it to his pile. He doesn't discard anything she chooses, nor does he want to. It’s only when Lucas picks up a truly horrible yellow sweater with sparkly ducks all over it he steps in to say no.

“Absolutely not.”

Lucas grins. “Why? I thought you wanted to change your style?” 

“In that case, I feel bad, we’ve been picking out so much for me that you haven’t had a chance to look,” Bucky says. He goes back to the middle of the store and grabs a wool sweater with an embroidered unicorn done by someone who has never seen an animal before. 

Bucky doubles over laughing at the petrified look on his face.

Charlie snorts. “No way. You have to try it on. Come on, do it.”

“Only if you do,” he says.

They find Charlie a patchwork quilt sweater that for some reason, has penguins flying over the moon. Bucky doesn’t understand it at all, but it gets the three of them laughing.

Somehow, they try it on with a straight face. Bucky emerges, his hair tousled up and static-ey with his duck sweater. When the other two come out, it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

Charlie goes over to the sunglasses rack and grabs 3 pairs. “It’ll make us look cooler.”

Bucky snorts, “Yeah, I think we’re past that.”

Charlie takes pictures of them in the mirror, posing and looking like absolute fools

It’s perfect.


	13. Uncover

He’s so absorbed in updating his journal that he’s almost late to the neighbors’ Halloween party downstairs. It’s really not that much of a party, but everyone was required to dress up. Charlie and Lucas are out with their friends, so it’s just David, Victoria, Theo, Ellie, and him handing out candy. 

Bucky’s thoroughly enjoying his costume, even if it’s a little too close to his real self. But the only other costume he has is an assassin, and he doesn’t think Ellie would like how realistic his weapons are. 

No, this is much better. The second hand shop’s Captain America shirt and a shitty helmet to match he’d ordered online. He would have done more, but there’s no way he’d dress up in those tights. 

It was bad enough seeing Steve wear a uniform that impractical.

Two bags of assorted candy in hand, he hums the Star Spangled Man with a Plan as he walks down the stairs. He never saw it in person, but Steve certainly had it stuck in his head enough. 

“Entrance music and everything, huh?” Theo asks from the landing. He’s dressed as...well, he’s not really sure what he’s dressed as. It seems to be vaguely bat themed, but why the hell is he wearing a yellow and black cape? He notices Bucky’s confusion. “Oh, yeah, Batman was my favorite as a kid.”

They’ve dragged Ellie’s dining room chairs into the first floor hallway.

“Superheros, huh?” Victoria asks. She’s in a blue and white dress with a black ribbon tying up her hair. There’s a fluffy white rabbit on the edge of her chair and—

“You’re Alice,” Bucky says. David emerges with a case of beer and a bottle of wine, in a mismatched Mad Hatter costume. “Mr. Hatter.”

“Captain,” David says, doing an improper salute with a bottle of wine.

Ellie comes out next wearing an all black, floor length dress and a long black wig. It’s stunning, but Bucky doesn't know what the hell it’s supposed to be.

Theo laughs. “Morticia Addams?”

“You kids weren’t even alive for the original series,” Ellie says. “I’m telling you, you missed out.”

Bucky grins. “I have a lot to catch up on.”

“But James,” Victoria says, her eyes already crinkling an unknown punchline. “I thought you two were from the same generation and all.”

“Still true, still true. I must have been in the ice when it came out.” Bucky gestures to his costume. 

Ellie rolls her eyes. “You might act my age, but you’re not going to be it for a long time.”

Huh, that was actually a good point. Has Steve figured out how they age yet?

Bucky turns his attention to the bags of candy in his hand. One of them for them, one to hand out. He figured it was only fair, especially since he had years of Halloweens to catch up on. Sugar, he’s discovered, is so much more accessible in the future.

He grabs a handful right away and sits back in the dining room chairs they’d dragged out of Ellie’s apartment.

“Is there going to be any left for the kids?” Theo asks, settling into his own chair. He brought along some beer and wine, and offers Bucky one. He holds up his treats in response—he fully intends on eating a meal’s worth of candy tonight.

“Their parents will thank you, for sure,” Victoria says. “Lucas always got so hyper on sugar, you remember that?”

David hands her a glass of wine and keeps one for himself. “How could I forget? The most exhausting time of my life.”

"See, I’m doing everyone a favor.” He examines what he has. He knows what some of these are, but can’t remember what on earth they tasted like. 

There are surely methodical ways of doing it. Maybe he could do it by color or size or ingredients. He could keep a running list of his favorites in his head so he knows what to grab on the next handful. Nope. 

He chooses one at random and pops it in his mouth. It’s crunchy and sweet and so fucking good. He’s so focused on the candy he doesn’t notice when kids start coming up.

“You’re Captain America!”

There’s a kid wearing a…”Is that a Bucky Barnes costume?” Ellie asks.

“Yeah! He’s the best one out of all of them. But you’re Captain America and that means we’re friends.”

The boy can’t be older than 8, yet here he is, wearing a costume of his gear from the war. He remembers wearing it—how the coat was the warmest thing he’d ever owned but the buttons were terrible to take on and off. How he’d stitched his initials into the cuff of his socks out of habit. How there would always be rocks that slipped into the bottom of his boot until Steve had taped up the hole on the inside with duct tape.

“The best friends,” Bucky says. 

“Cool.” The boy starts showing off the different parts of the costume, from the blue coat and pants and boots and utility belt. It’s a kids costume, so it’s baggy and isn’t a historical replica or anything but...it’s him.

His parents eventually convince him to continue on their way, but Bucky can’t get it out of his mind. 

Theo notices. “Missing your new friend already?”

He huffs a laugh but just can’t let it drop “Are there costumes for all of them?”

“Oh yeah, Lucas went as Gabe Jones for three years in a row. He was so upset when that coat didn’t fit him,” David says. 

Bucky puts on a smile. “You’ll have to show me a picture.”

They agree and the conversation moves on. He never could have guessed there would be costumes of him. That kids would want to dress up as him for Halloween.

That night, there’s a Morita, a Dum Dum, two Captain America’s , and three Peggy Carter’s. 

His sisters making things that showed how much they missed him was one thing. Other Avengers costumes make sense because they’ve saved the world while these kids were alive. This was entirely different.

What they did in the war wasn’t heroic. Sure, they saved the world and Steve almost died for it. But it was war and war is never black and white. 

They still killed people and Bucky especially did it without any form of honor. There’s nothing honest about lying in wait in a tree or on a roof for the slightest shadow that gives him enough information as to the target’s location. They’re always dead before they know what happened. 

Bucky never told anyone how it felt like he was shooting himself every time he killed. Not Steve, not Gabe, or Dum Dum, or Falsworth or anyone. Afterwords, well...there wasn’t anyone to tell. 

When Theo, Victoria, and Ellie enter a loud debate on the best Halloween movie, David slides over to him. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

David levels him with a look—it’s an awful lie and they both know it. Bucky imagines it works wonders on his students.

“I didn’t know they had costumes of the Howling Commandos. Do they even know what happens in war? How can their parents not realize…”

He swirls his wine in thought. By Bucky’s count, it’s his third glass. “You know, in the Civil War, people would have picnics near where they knew there’d be a battle.”

He lets David gather his thoughts. 

“War’s beautiful to those who don’t understand. Heroic, even.”

He remembers training, how every single one of them was excited to defend their country, to defend their friends and family back home. He can’t help but agree. 

“But the only good that comes from war is the ability to come out of it. We made it out. And yeah, that means we’ve got a lot of shit to deal with.”

Bucky snorts a laugh that quickly turns bitter. “Yeah, I’ll say. I just...I can’t help thinking everything I did I thought I could justify. It was to protect my friends, or on someone’s orders, or I didn’t know what I was doing. But I still did it, didn’t I?”

David doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing _to_ say when you understand that well. “That’s always the problem, isn’t it? You can justify it in the moment but afterwards…”

“Afterwards is the worst part, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” David reaches over and picks up two beers. Opening both of them, he hands one to Bucky. “The only thing that makes it better is knowing we got to come home.”

“To coming home.”

They clink glasses and watch as their family laughs and laughs. 

Bucky even finds himself laughing with them at times. 

He did get out, that’s the thing. He’s out and has the whole future ahead of him. He’s not naive enough to think he won’t have to fight for it. 

But for now maybe, he can laugh and eat candy dressed as the man he loved once—and will again.

* * *

“I didn’t realize how much I was hiding,” A vet named Jackie says. “I figured if I pretended I was fine, I could convince my PTSD to go away.”

“I know what you mean,” Bucky says, surprising even himself. Everyone in group startles, as if they forgot he was there.

The therapist, Marissa, nods at the two of them. “That’s something a lot of people can relate to, why do you think it’s so common?”

Well, fuck, she’s the one with a degree in this. “In my case at least, I don’t think I’ve ever been honest with myself if I was struggling. I’ve tried to resolve it or wait it out, but I never wanted help. Now that doesn’t work anymore—maybe it never worked in the first place.”

Jackie nods at him. “I’m the same way. Now I have something I can’t solve on my own, and it’s forced me to change that.”

Marissa takes over, leading them into a discussion about how they can overcome the habits they’ve built up over the years that just don’t work anymore. He doesn’t contribute to the solutions, but he listens, instead. It seems that even though they’re all vastly different, a lot of them have been hiding. 

“I want us to go around and say something honest that you don’t talk about very often. You can pass if you want, but it doesn’t have to be a huge secret—it can be as simple as your favorite cereal,” Marissa says. “I’ll go first—I want to adopt a child with my wife.”

David smiles at her. “I’d rather my students make fun of me than understand what I’m going through.”

Other people speak up—a few say light-hearted things like that their favorite movie is secretly supposed to be a kids movie. A few say something deeper, like the man who’s worried his wife will leave him if he doesn't manage his PTSD symptoms. 

Sometimes, Marissa asks if they’d like to elaborate, and a couple of people take her up on it and the conversation goes on a tangent for a couple of minutes. Nobody lies.

And then it’s Bucky. He could easily pass; two people have already. But... 

“I have memory issues because of a field injury, and I’m more worried about what I don’t remember than what I do,” Bucky says. A pool of dread settles in his stomach just at the thought of it.

Whenever he builds up the nerve to look into his past, he always comes across sound evidence that he was placed somewhere. Or he was sent on a mission. Or something is too well done, and too advantageous to Hydra to be anyone but him.

A scientist’s family killed the week before she’s set to publish her innovations in nuclear energy. A gas leak in a children’s hospital that kills an important politician, and somehow, none of the staff or patients. Dozens killed without a trace, dozens killed and someone else framed. 

And yet, he can’t remember doing it. 

“It’s natural to fear the unknown,” Marissa says. “Do you feel comfortable talking about it, James?”

“No.”

She nods. “When you’re ready, you should consider what, specifically, you fear so you can better overcome it.”

He makes a noncommittal noise and turns to the next person. Mercifully, he distracts the group with an anecdote about a prank they pulled on their CO. Bucky wishes he’d thought about it back in the war. He can only imagine Phillips’ reaction.

Nothing is enough to erase David’s concern, however. On the walk back, he tentatively brings it up.

“I didn’t know you had memory issues,” he says lightly.

“Yeah well, neither did I for a while. Don’t take it personally.”

“Hey,” David says. It’s in his disappointed teacher voice. “I’m not going to make you talk about it. But I’m here if you want to.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything until they’re already off the subway. Their silence isn’t uncomfortable, but David is trying his best to appear like he’s not waiting. If he ever breaks under interrogation, that’s not going to be the technique. 

Still, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You said you wouldn’t make me talk about it and you didn’t,” Bucky says. “I’m not used to that.”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be forced to….well, do anything.”

“No, it’s not that.” Bucky reassures him. “My family was always so curious, they never left anything alone. And then…”

Well, there was the depressing part he didn't want to talk about.

“You don’t talk about your family very much.” It’s a simple observation, but there’s also a question lying there. 

“It’s been awhile since we’ve been close,” Bucky says quietly. They’ve all grieved him in their own ways. His parents have made their piece with his death. The world has moved on from him, and yet…

What he wouldn’t give to take Becca dancing again, or to braid Belle’s hair in the morning when their mother was too busy, or listen to Bee’s stories. Or listen to the radio with his father. Or help his mother cook.

“Do you miss them?”

Bucky can’t do much more than nod. He’s not about to break down crying in the middle of the street. 

He doesn’t ask about it. He doesn’t ask why Bucky’s not in touch with them. He doesn’t ask about his memory issues. Instead, David’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Luckily, through the thick fabric of his coat, he can’t feel the seam for his metal arm. 

He clears his throat. “You said in group you’d rather your students make fun of you than understand what you’re going through.”

David huffed. You caught that?”

Bucky nods, then hurries to explain. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks, James.” His smile is brighter than all the streetlights combined. “I’d like to if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, sure,” Bucky says. “Go for it.”

“Well my students—a few of them. It’s actually the kids that want to join up, that's the funny part. They’re the tough ones who think they’ll be fine no matter what happens.” 

He knows the type. The men he trained with, his men before the Commandos, even the other prisoners in Azzano. Even him. They all believed they were immune to the horror stories they’d heard from the men who’d come back. They could never imagine the stories of the ones who didn’t. “That part never changes, does it?”

“No. They’re smart about it, they never do it to my face. But Lucas hears it,” David says. 

“Is that why he gets into fights?”

“You know about that?” 

“That’s how we met,” Bucky says. “Pulled him out of one a few blocks away from school.”

“I wondered. Lucas never said, I thought you and Ellie met first.”

“Oh, no. I walked him back home and Ellie said she had an open apartment,” Bucky says. “And that was that.”

“Turned out pretty well, didn’t it?”  
“Yeah, I think it did.”

They continue on their way home.

* * *

Hydra has gotten quiet.

Between the news coverage, hundreds of investigations, and the Avengers taking down their bases, they’ve gotten secretive.

Well, they’ve always been secretive, but now they’re successful at it. Bucky spends hours trying to find their new communications network. He has to admit, it’s well hidden. 

Even when he finds it, he can’t access the messages. But the records are enough to trace their locations.

He makes a note of every location with less than 5 outgoing messages in the last few months. Once the destroyed bases are taken off, he’s left with a small handful.

Bucky forwards them to JARVIS, who will pass them along to the Avengers. He’s not sure where they think this intel is coming from, but he knows it’ll be nearly impossible to track. 

To his surprise, JARVIS responds:

> “Dear Informant,
> 
> As I am sure you are aware, the Avengers have acted on your past coordinates and wish to personally thank you for your valuable assistance. If inclined, please respond with a date or location, and I will organize a meeting between you and the Avengers. Please be assured that measures to guarantee the safety of all those involved will be taken.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> JARVIS”

Bucky gets as far as opening the reply button, but can’t type anything. The cursor blinks on the blank email as he contemplates what to do.

* * *

The arm quickly becomes a problem. Designed by Hydra’s best engineers in the ‘40s and ‘50s, it was meant to last forever. That’s why it was made out of reinforced titanium. Not the whole thing, of course, but Hydra viewed him as an investment. He would have to have the best. 

Bucky understands this, but not the fact that no one taught him to do more than basic upkeep on it. He still has the tools, and has a basic understanding of how machines work.. 

It was foolish of him to wait until now. 

He’d noticed it getting stiff for weeks, and sometimes it would take a second if two longer than it should for his arm to move. 

But this...He bites back a curse as the joints lock and warps the access panel, pinching the nerves. He has to take several deep breaths to avoid screaming. 

He usually has a high pain tolerance, but anything they did with his arm was always the most painful. 

He lowers himself to the floor and puts his good shoulder against the wall. He debates what to do. If he stays here, his arm won’t get fixed, and the pain will probably just increase. If he moves to get his arm’s tools, his pain will definitely increase. 

That’s ignoring the fact that he can’t get open the access panel without prying it completely off, and his pain will definitely sky rocket. 

He has to cut open his sweater to attempt to open the upper arm’s panel, but the bent metal pushes into the latch. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says. 

Very very slowly, he stands up and eases his arm into another jacket. This one, at least, is huge and zips in the front. He slips the tools into the right pocket. He makes sure to lock the door behind him. There’s only one person he trusts to fix this. 

Charlie answers the door and immediately knows something is wrong. Granted, it’s not hard. Bucky’s face is clammy and probably ashen, and he winces every time he even thinks about moving. “Hey James,” she says cautiously. 

“Hi. Is your dad home?” Bucky asks. 

"Just came back, actually. He had the closing shift at the shop tonight.”

Despite his evident exhaustion, he brightens when he comes to see who’s at the door. “James!”

“Can I ask a favor?” He doesn’t bother with hiding the desperation in his voice.

Theo scans him and seems to reach a conclusion. He turns to his daughter. “I think I can handle it from here.”

She hesitates. “You sure? Do you need help with...whatever’s going on?”

“Yes, I think we’ll be fine,” Theo says. He raises his eyebrows at Bucky. 

He nods. “Thanks, Charlie.”

“I’m going to go over to Ellie’s,” she says cautiously. “Good luck James.”

"Thanks,” Bucky says. 

She grabs her backpack from next to the door, throwing a backwards look at them as she goes down the stairs.

Theo holds the door open for him.

Their apartment is cozy and filled with life. Between the dozens of plants and the family photos, it’s a welcoming space. Trinkets find their home on every surface. Even the lighting is a soft yellow.

Theo moves towards the kitchen, which is equally as warm. Mugs hang on the bottom of the cabinet, and not a single one of them matches. “You want anything? Tea? Coffee? Tequila?”

Bucky huffs a laugh and follows him. There’s a little table against one wall, and Theo gestures to him to sit. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Theo works on starting the coffee pot, and Bucky finds himself looking at the little salt and pepper shakers. They’re shaped like tiny succulents.

This is what a home is. It has traces of Theo and Charlie, and here he is intruding on it. How can Bucky ask for his help when he’s already in enough danger knowing a fraction of who he is?

A mug with a sarcastic looking cat is placed in front of him. “You put whipped cream on it?”

Theo grins at him. “Of course it is. It won’t solve everything, but even a shitty day is better with it.”

To his surprise, it does make this suck a lot less. “Thanks.”

"So, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to explain this,” Bucky says quietly. Fuck, why didn’t he think of this before. Granted, his entire cover for living here relies on nobody knowing he’s a metal-armed assassin with a host of trauma and war crimes to go along with it. He goes to run a hand through his hair, and remembers too late exactly why that’s a bad idea. He hisses in pain. Theo raises his eyebrows. 

Sighing, Bucky takes off his gloves and shows Theo his hand.

Theo blinks several times before responding. “You’ve got a prosthetic metal hand?”

“Arm, it connects at the shoulder joint.”

“That’s why you wear gloves all the time?”

Bucky nods. “But it’s seizing up and it bent the access panel so I can’t do it myself. I’m not even sure I know how to fix it.”

“You think I can fix it?” Theo gives him a look of disbelief. 

“You’re the only one I trust enough to try.”

Theo leans against the kitchen counter with his mug. His wedding band taps against the mug as he thinks. Finally, he drains his coffee, refills it, and adds a generous amount of whipped cream on top.

“Can I see it?”

Bucky looks around. The blinds are closed for all the windows he can see—it’s safe enough. Gently, he tugs off his coat, revealing the roughly cut sweater. 

Theo is remarkably calm taking in his arm. “Can I cut off the rest of your sweater from your arm?”

Bucky nods. 

Theo opens a drawer and pulls out a set of kitchen scissors with smiley faces all over the handle. He snips away at the remainder of his sweater. When he reaches the joint between skin and metal, he inhales sharply at the scar tissue around it. 

“Um, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get this? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Theo says. 

“There was an accident where I fell off a train, and I guess I lost my arm somewhere in the process. I don’t really remember much about it.”

“How long ago…” Theo starts, but cuts himself off. “How does it work?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but I think it reinforces my scapula and collar bone and it’s anchored to parts of my spine,” Bucky says. “I think whatever’s left of my nerve endings is connected to my arm, and eectrodes help me control it.”

Theo sits down heavily and doesn’t speak for several moments. He opens his mouth several times, like he can’t decide on what to say. “You can feel everything?”

“Not as well, but yeah.”

“James, Some of these plates are bent. How much pain are you in right now?” Theo asks. His voice is ashen. 

Pain is a funny thing, isn’t it? For him, even with his limited memories, he knows this isn’t the worst pain he’s ever experienced. The sadistic parts of his mind knows that this isn’t the worst pain he will ever be in. But it once would have been, and it certainly hurts. “A lot.”

“Fuck, you mean this whole time that I’ve been making coffee…”

“It’s fine, really. It’s not that bad,” Bucky says. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because he gets a flat stare in return. He clears his throat. “I have some tools that should help.”

He starts twisting to get them out of his coat pocket, until Theo grabs the coat off the back of the chair first. They’re in a little black, rolled pouch and he undoes. “These are what you use for repairs?”

I do maintenance every couple of weeks, but I don’t know how to do much more.”

“Do you use a sedative?” Theo asks. 

“No.”

“Damn it James.” He stands up and gets a bottle of tequila and a cheap bottle of vodka from a cabinet. He gets a plate and several towels. “Do you know how this happened?”

“No, it used to get repairs more regularly, so maybe I’m not used to it.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Theo mutters. He pours vodka over the tools in the plate and dries them off, and pours Bucky a large glass of tequila. “You good without a chaser?”

He nods and drinks deeply, only to immediately start coughing. It’s dry and burns going down. Theo doubles over laughing. 

Bucky coughs one more time. “That’s awful.”

“I asked if you needed a chaser,” Theo says. There’s a little headlamp he puts on to illuminate his arm better. Then, he grabs a plastic container of whipped cream from the fridge and sets it in front of him with a spoon. “Do you need to lie down or anything? I don’t know how long this will take.”

Hydra never thought about him lying down for his own comfort, or a sedative, or whipped cream. After a long mission, they would have him there for hours, even when they’d rotate mechanics so they could have a break. He’d be frozen with only the whirring of the machines and silence for company.

He knew the chair meant pain, meant him losing whatever memories he’d gained. Even though he could never keep them, he’d drown in his memories when they did repairs on his arm.

Even though it was temporary, it was the only thing that offered the slightest comfort. He preferred the bad ones because he knew this wasn’t the worst he’d go through—probably today, even. No, the good memories...those were torture.

It was worse knowing that there was something else. A time without this pain, a time where he was acknowledged. Those were always the hardest to lose.

“I’ll be fine.” Bucky shakes his head. “Um, do you usually play music or something at the shop?”

He studies him, and his voice goes soft. “You want music?”

“Or talking or something…” It kills him how small his voice is. He’s stronger than this, damn it. He’s been through worse than this. He’s sitting in his friend’s apartment with whipped cream, plants and tequila—he shouldn’t ask for anything more. “Just not silence.”

Theo pulls out his phone, opens Spotify, and hands it to him. “Play whatever you want.”

Bucky scrolls through his playlists until he finds one of Charlie’s playlists. It’s a playlist full of “old” songs from the 2000s. That’s a fucking paradox.

“Good choice,” Theo says. He moves his chair closer to him, so that he’s sitting in front of his arm. “Can you put your arm here?”

Bucky does it and tries to focus on the music. It’s some sort of upbeat rock song with plenty of guitar and drums. He likes it.

“Do I need to turn it off or something? I don’t want to electrocute either of us,” Theo says. 

That’s the funniest fucking thing he’s heard all year. “It doesn't turn off, but those tools are insulators for any shocks my arm will give off. It won’t hurt you.”

“And you?”

“It happens,” Bucky says. He looks at the succulent salt shakers. Theo doesn’t want to hurt him—can’t possibly want to hurt anyone with how much he clearly cares about life. He understands where he’s cming from but, “There’s nothing you can do about it. If it’s going to shock me, it’ll shock me. I won’t be mad.”

James, I’m not worried about you being mad at me, I’m worried about hurting you,” Theo says, resigned. He waits until Bucky meets his gaze. “Just, whenever you want to take a break, let me know, and I’ll stop”

Bucky nods faintly. “Ok.”

It’s always strange to have someone poking around. He can never discern a pattern well enough to picture what’s being done, but Theo explains what he’s doing as he’s doing it. Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that information, but it’s comforting to know what’s going on. It’s nice of him.

He starts by taking off the access panel entirely. There are special, hidden screws that hold it into place and aren’t obvious unless you know what you’re looking for. Then, after removing the dents and making sure it’ll fit once they’re done, he moves on to the arm itself.

“Huh, that’s strange.” Theo says. “It looks like there’s a space for...tubes? Was this always hollow?”

“No,” Bucky says. The evidence is sitting under his sink. “I took them out.”

“What were they?”

He debates being honest. But it’s one thing to have a cool, metal, prosthetic with some possible medical malpractice. It’s another one entirely to have drug capsules in an invasive surgical procedure that was not consensual. “That’s my whipped cream stash.”

Theo huffs a laugh. “But really—”

“I don’t think you’ll like the answer.”

He backtracks, but his smile gets tighter. “Always good to have a snack on you.”

“Exactly.”

He returns to his arm, muttering about how he’s going to recalibrate the coils that allow him to have fine motor skills. Then he readjusts the plate mechanisms, and tries a few different things to improve the response time.

It’s not pleasant. At one point, Bucky starts sipping at the tequila. He’s not naive enough to think he can get drunk, but the burn in his throat is a decent distraction. Really, it’s when he mixes the tequila and the whipped cream that it’s ideal.

Theo gives him a concerned glance, but at least he’s just worried about his taste than his potential trauma. Really, it’s a nice change of pace. 

Especially when he steals the spoon for himself.

It’s a long process, but finally, he greases the inner and outer joints of his arm, and has Bucky run through a few motor control tests. 

“How does that feel?”

Bucky rolls his wrist and watches the plates readjust. “It feels perfect.”

His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Good as new.” He screws the access panel closed and sits back with a sigh. 

"It’s better than new.” Bucky says. He hadn’t realized how much pain he was in. “Thank you, Theo. Really.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you could trust me with this.”

“I should have told you this before, but it’s dangerous for you to know,” Bucky says.

“Good thing I’m not going to tell anyone.” Theo says calmly. He stands up stiffly and puts the tequila back in the cabinet. The whipped cream is long gone. “As far as I’m concerned, you needed help with a family issue tonight. You don’t talk a lot about them, so no one will want to push you on it.”

“I...Thank you.”

He turns around, teasing. “You already said that.”

“I know.”

“Dork,” Theo says fondly. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Bucky updates his journal that night. He doesn’t want to forget a single second.


	14. Missing

He sleeps the entirety of the next day. It was a stressful night, when Bucky wakes up after his 6 hours of sleep, he thinks about getting up for all of 4 seconds before rolling over. But apparently, the world does not enjoy letting Bucky sleep in.

When he wakes up, he checks his computer as normal, only to find that Max’ phone has not been in use for more than 40 hours. Now 12 hours—sure, maybe he finally got some sleep. 24 hours, maybe the phone died or something. But almost two days...something is up.

He’s not going to panic. Panic is a nonproductive way of problem solving.

To others, Bucky’s venture out of the apartment is leisurely. He’s just taking a stroll, maybe going to run some errands. And, of course, he always stops at the coffee shop if he’s running errands. 

Liv, Max’s barista friend, is working, and he’s never been so grateful to whoever decides their schedule. “Hey,” she says brightly. “What can I get you, James?”

He smiles through the sick feeling in his stomach. “Why don’t you surprise me?”

She thinks about it and starts writing the order on the side of the cup. “How’ve you been?”

“Great,” he lies. “You haven’t seen Max in the past few days, have you? He was supposed to come by and he never showed.”

“No,” Liv says. “Now that you mention it, he hasn’t texted me and he never ghosts me unless he’s mad. Gemini’s, you know?”

“I know right?” Bucky chuckles, even as his chest tightens. “Do you think he is?”

She shrugs. “I can’t think of anything. He’s probably just working on his paper, you know how he gets.”

That’s exactly what he’s worried about. He finishes paying and smiles at her. “I don’t think he’s mad at you, he probably lost his phone while researching or something.”

“Yeah,” she bites her lip. “I’ll let you know if he says anything to me.”

“So will I,” he moves down the counter to wait for his drink.

It tastes like ash and ice.

* * *

On the way back home, he visits the alley he first met Lucas in. Sure enough, the bag he stashed there weeks ago is still there. He debates picking up one more, just in case. But he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with yet.

He keeps his leisurely pace the entire way up the stairs. He even smiles and makes small talk with Ellie. His hands don’t shake as they lock the door, or when they start taking out the contents of his bag. Weapons, food, first aid, money, light surveillance equipment, extra clothes.

He doesn’t dare repack it. Instead, he opens his laptop and goes through the communication networks once more. This time, the phone records won’t do.

It takes longer than he wants, but finally, he’s in, masquerading as a Hydra agent. Of course, his IP address is scrambled until it’s recognizable as his disguise’s account.

They’ve been chatty since he last checked. Still vague, but he can work with that. A few of them located in a Hydra base in New Jersey keep referencing an exciting development in establishing their secrecy.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Bucky keeps digging.

This isn’t something he can pass onto the Avengers. If they fail to rescue him...it’s unthinkable. Hydra won’t make the same mistake. They will kill him. Or torture him. Or even if the Avengers succeed, when Max gets too chatty about a vet named James who was helping him with his research onto the Winter Soldier project...he can’t risk it.

No, this is a mission he has to complete himself, and he needs intelligence to do that. He does not think about what is probably happening to Max. He does not think about how this might all be a trap. He does not think about failing.

He takes every weapon in the apartment, protein bars, and the rest of the nutrient shakes. He can’t afford to fail due to hunger. A few changes of clothes and a few juice boxes goes a duffel bag. And unlike the last time he was on the streets, he brings the most neutral smelling toiletries he has. At last, clad in his new winter coat, a soft hat, and thick jeans, he’s just an average person from Jersey going about their day.

His contingency plan is twofold. 

The first part is a timed email to JARVIS. If he does not deactivate it within a week and a half, it will send and explain everything. From the apartment to the neighbors to Max’s capture to the location of the base to an apology to Steve. He hopes Steve will never read it.

The second part is his journals hidden in the back of his fridge. Two are completely filled by now, and he’s working on a third. If he doesn’t make it back and Ellie or someone has to clean out his fridge, they will know the truth.

He spares a thought for Theo’s housewarming plant on the way out, and wets some paper towels to put over the soil. He’s not worried about it molding; he’ll be back in a few days to take it off.

On the way down, he tells Ellie he’s going out of town for a few days. The official cover is that his security company is hosting a conference he’s supposed to attend. She looks at him suspiciously—that’s quite a few dinners he’s missed now. But before she can call him out on it, he makes his excuses and leaves. 

Her mouth purses like she’s going to call him out for his rudeness—which is justified. He can’t afford to give a better explanation, not in a way that wouldn’t put them all in danger. 

Besides, he’ll be back in a few days to apologize. That just depends on nothing going to shit.

When does that ever happen, anyways?

* * *

It takes him the rest of the day to get to the Hydra base in a warehouse district in New Jersey. Everything in him screams to go faster, but it would risk exposure. If it’s a trap, then Hydra will be watching every mode of transportation they can. They can’t know he’s coming.

Hydra may have trained him to be an assassin, but the ones who did it are long gone. His handlers—the short one who got more and more weighed down as the years went by, the one whose wire-thin smile became crueler and meaner, the woman who wove knives and forged silk with her voice, and the one who practiced discipline like he was worshipping a god. 

One by one, he was sent to kill each of them until he was transferred to the Americans. They forgot to cover the project’s tracks and eliminate Karpov. Or maybe, they never knew about him in the first place.

But these new Hydra agents barely believe he exists. Pierce would whisper that he was the perfect threat—one that seemed idle enough until the moment the agents realized who was after them. 

These ones might not believe he’s coming for them until the moment he kills them. It doesn’t make him careless. He buys the tickets of strangers under his false alias’ and gives them money under the condition they spend it under that name.

He’s glad for how easily it comes back to him and at the same time, a pool of dread settles deep in his bones. This is who he was for decades. If the analytical, strategic, 11-steps-ahead way of thinking is so natural to him, will it ever leave?

Bucky doesn’t like the answer.

He does a casual loop around the warehouse and the surrounding buildings. To anyone looking, he’s just taking a stroll and enjoying the sunset.

It’s productive. The warehouse masquerades as a meat distribution center and actually ships out goods. Which means, they actually import them as well. Bucky settles into the roof of a neighboring building.

And watches.

He learns the shift changes, learns who is expected where. There are too many people for a simple meat distribution center.

But Hydra does not own the surrounding buildings, so that points to a basement level. Possibly even one that extends the entire block. It’s been known to happen.

He wants nothing more than to charge in there and rescue Max. But the slightest slip up from him would be even worse. Hydra lost their automated, instant assassin—he will be in high demand once they get their shit together. So here he remains, a ghost story once more.

* * *

He spends another day on surveillance and finalizes his plan. Then, he sleeps for 4 and a half hours, continues surveillance for 3 hours, and sleeps again for 4 and a half hours. When he wakes, it’s time.

The distribution center shipped out a large amount of their product—animal meat, not Max—the night before, and is expecting a shipment of new stock in 3 days. They are understaffed because they are not needed. It’s the best opportunity he’ll have.

In the blind spot of the security cameras, Bucky slips inside once the last person leaves. Only the night shift remains.

He can work with a short staffed skeleton crew. He evades people on the top level, but once he finds his way to the lower level of the original building, he hides and waits once more.

From his place in a slatted-door supply closet, he waits for the person no one seems to know. Soon enough, he spots a man in work boots that are much too clean, and a shirt far too nice for a factory worker’s salary. No one makes small talk with him. No one nods or waves a greeting. He’s not there for them.

Bucky creeps out of his hiding spot and follows him through vacant hallways. His footsteps are silent, and he does not make a noise. The man leads him to a stairwell that only goes down. He’s in before the door can finish shutting.

The man goes down 3 flights of stairs and the door clicks shut behind him. He twists the lock to the stairwell door beyond repair. At least, unless someone else around here has a metal arm strong enough to undo it. He won’t have any backup here to save them.

Outside the stairwell, harsh, concrete walls betray the truth about this place. If Bucky didn’t know this was a Hydra base already, he would now. 

Sure, this part of the base still pretends to store meat, but Bucky doubts that’s what the bloodstains are from.

Any prisoners will be in an easy to conceal place that is removed from any public spaces. They wouldn’t want any screams to be heard by everyone. So that leaves the outer reaches of the sublevels, or the very bottom level itself. 

He is silent moving through the halls. There is no fear, not for something he has done hundreds of times. This isn’t a mission of secrecy, though, so when he finds a group of Hydra agents playing poker rather than monitoring their security cameras...

That’s when the fighting starts. Bucky grins.

* * *

Bucky opens the door carefully, sticking a knife in the door to prevent it from locking them in. He doesn’t know what state Max is in or what he knows. He’s the biggest variable. 

The room is barren. No windows and overhead lights so the Hydra agents could manipulate how Max perceives time. Nothing to do so he focuses on what might happen to him. Nondescript bowl and plate that was probably delivered irregularly. Generic bucket for other things.

And Max, bashing a nondescript black folding chair over his head. He catches it and tugs, throwing him off balance. He stumbles into Bucky and immediately starts hitting him, his eyes clenched shut out of fear Bucky will hit back.

Bucky catches his fists, holding them as still as possible without hurting him. “Hey, hey, hey it’s me. You’re safe.”

Max stops thrashing and slowly opens his eyes. Well, the one that’s not swollen. At a quick glance, he has several bruises across his face, but he has enough motor control and strength of mind to attack him. He’s breathing hard, but it’s not rattling. They’re good signs, and Bucky relaxes.

He’s the only one—if anything, Max gets even tenser. “James?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He looks at his hands. Or more specifically, at the metal hand restraining his own. “Is that who you really are?” He tugs away and Bucky releases him. Max’s hands drift to his ribs. There’s nothing he can do about those right now, though.

“I’ll explain everything, I promise,” he says. They don’t have time for this. “But we need to go.”

“No. Who are you?” Max’ mouth curls into a mockery of a smile. His expression, which usually never holds more than a slight annoyance, is full of hatred. 

Bucky could easily incapacitate Max and carry him out. The majority of the Hydra agents are unconscious, and the rest cannot organize an effective attack against him. Bucky can manage fighting and an unconscious Max at the same time and they wouldn’t risk valuable time on explanations.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he says instead. 

He thought Max was going to start hitting him again until he continued. 

“When I was a POW in the war, a scientist named Zola experimented on me, which allowed me to survive the fall off the train when everyone thought I’d died. I was found by Hydra agents and eventually became the Winter Soldier. I broke the conditioning in May when the helicarriers came down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Oh.” He bites his lip in thought. His suspicion grows when finally gives Bucky a once over. “You sure about that?”

He knows what he looks like, even if he’s in just jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. Small cuts from the Hydra agents smart enough to carry knives litter his shirt, and the metal of his arm shines through where people tried to stab it. He still has quite a few guns and a dozen knives left which are all in easy to access places.

He’s armed and bloodstained and terrifying. Hydra liked their victims afraid, and molded him into fear itself.

“No one’s dead,” Bucky says defensively. “Just...not having a good time.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. What’s supposed to make you feel better is that I’m on your side.” Bucky raises his eyebrows and gestures to the door.

Still, Max hesitates. Goddamn it, every second they spend here is wasting time. He detaches a sheathed knife from his belt and instantly, Max retreats.

Something in him shatters. The only reason Max hasn’t demanded that he leaves him alone is because he still needs Bucky.

He raises his last three fingers to show him the grip—light hold with his thumb and index finger, other fingers wrapped loosely around the hilt. “The stomach and underarm are easier to stab than most places while still being effective.”

Bucky hands it over, hilt first. He even manages a small, tight smile. “Don’t stab me yet.”

“I’m not going to stab you,” Max says.

He’s lying.

“Make sure you’re safe, first,” Bucky says. “Come on.”

He takes the knife as he opens the door, peering down the hallway for anyone. It’s empty. He leads Max down the hallway, checking rooms to make sure he doesn’t miss anyone. 

Finally, he reaches an office with a computer. The woman looks up as he enters. Her eyes go wide and she stumbles trying to stand up. She picks up a letter opener in shaking hands and brandishes it at him. He steps fully into the room and Max shuts the door behind them.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks. 

“You’re...you’re him,” she says. Her voice is tiny and squeaks when she tries to go on. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“Have they?” He looks around the office, appearing bored. 

In reality, he’s aware of everything she does, from the way she tries to regain her composure to the way her fingers inch towards the gun that is no doubt in her desk drawer. She stalls, hoping someone else will come across them. “Why are you here?”

“I need to borrow your computer,” he says.

“What?” She pauses her goal of trying to sneak the way she’s arming herself by him.

“I could have done it later, but since I’m already here…” He absently strolls over to the bookshelf and picks up a tiny, framed photo. It’s the woman in a graduation gown, surrounded by her family. It’s foolish to leave it out. “I might as well use it, don’t you think?”

When he meets her eyes, her face is ashen. She sends a desperate look towards Max. On his part, he’s equally as pale, which makes the bruises on his face stand out. 

He sets the picture aside. “I can make it so your computer won’t be linked to what I’m sending. You were overpowered, just like everyone else in this building.”

She blinks. Evidently, she never even considered that Hydra won’t be pleased with her if they find out she didn’t stop him. Nevermind that they designed him to be unstoppable. She’ll be targeted.

“You mind?” He takes a step closer to the desk and she instantly stumbles back. As he comes even closer, she retreats to the opposite wall, so she’s facing both him and Max. He opens the drawer, and unsurprisingly, there’s a tiny revolver. He unloads it and pockets the ammo, setting the gun itself down on the desk.

She glances towards the door and he sends her a glare. “Don’t even think about it.”

Max looks between the two of them and comes to stand next to Bucky. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a scary guy?”

“Not recently,” Bucky says. He does what he said he would do and makes her computer unrecognizable. No one, not even Hydra, will be able to pinpoint the specific computer that sent the message. 

He writes the email from the same email address as the other messages to JARVIS. It reads only, “Got you a present, you may have to do some digging. Happy Holidays :D” and the map coordinates of the warehouse. He puts it on a timer of an hour until it sends.

Max stares at the message before bursting out laughing. His hands absently rest on his ribs. Bucky will have to reassess his injuries at some point. “A smiley face? Really?”

“Can’t let it be known I’m unfriendly,” he says drily. “You see how that guy looked at me at that first stairwell?”

Recognition flickers across her face. “You’ve already sealed up the exits?”

Perfect. “Who do you take me for? An ameteur?”

With that, he starts the timer. She looks between them as if questioning her sanity. 

“Now then,” Bucky stands up, and she takes a step back. “I can either tie you up and then knock you out, or knock you out and then tie you up. Your choice.”

She takes a moment to consider it, then goes to her desk and shoves everything on the surface to the floor with a crash. The little mirror on top shatters.“You mind breaking the bookshelf?”

“Course not, but it’ll be more realistic if I throw you into it,” Bucky says.

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Knock me out, first, then.”

He pinches a few pressure points and she crumples into him. Nothing else to do really, than throw her into the wall. Books and their shelves tumble to the floor. He takes her scarf off her little coat rack by the door and ties her up.

“Is it usually that easy?”

“No, actually. But she was scared from the beginning,” Bucky says. “Makes it ten times easier.”

They continue on, and Bucky still checks every room. That’s the last of the easy targets, though. He takes down several more, and Max even gets a punch or two in. 

It’s easy, fighting like this. Fighting is all about hitting the right places and reading the other person. Under different circumstances, this might even be relaxing. 

The Hydra agents aren’t skilled enough to warrant lethal wounds, so he does enough damage to knock them out and moves on.

They make their way to the cafeteria, where Bucky already has a dozen Hydra agents tied up.

Max’ face turns stony when he recognizes one of them. “That’s the one who questioned me.”

“Anyone else do it?” Bucky asks.

Max shakes his head. 

It’s an old trick. If they use one person for questioning, as the only source of something other than absolute boredom, and the prisoner starts associating the interrogator with the positivity form entertainment. 

Bucky shrugs. “You want to punch him or something? Write something on him?”

“Isn’t that mean?”

“They did kidnap you,” Bucky reminds him. He leaves Max to his decision and goes around making sure everyone is nice and knocked out. They only have a few more rooms to check and they can leave. He’s not going to risk anyone tailing them, but they’re on a timer, here. By his estimate, JARVIS could send any of the ones that fly here for reconnaissance, and a full team could be here within an hour or two.

But more importantly, there are other exits to seal up.

Out of the corner of his eye, someone’s breathing is a little too irregular. He goes over to him and crouches next to him. The man’s breath hitches.

Perfect.

He flicks him on the forehead. The man flinches, opening his eyes in the process. Bucky smiles. “Morning.”

He opens his mouth wide to scream only to find the flat edge of his blade against his tongue. He freezes.

“Want to rethink that?”

The man meets his eyes, and the look is full of hatred. But his breath comes quickly and his shoulders are tense. He’s afraid. 

“When I remove this knife, you’re going to tell me every exit in and out of here.” Bucky presses the knife down further until the man makes a little sound in the back of his throat. 

In a shaking voice, the man tells him where the other two exits are. 

He smiles and taps the man on the nose with the knife. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Bucky knocks him out again. 

He stands up, only to find Max staring at him. He’s fiddling with his knife, and he’s glad he gave him the sheath, too. “Would you have done it?”

“He was going to talk,” he says.

“How can you be so sure? What if he didn’t? Would you have done it?”

“I didn’t need to.”

“What if—”

“Max. I know how to get information out of someone ** _—_** torture, intimidation, whatever. And I’m good at it.” Bucky sheaths his knife. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I…” Max runs a hand through his hair. “Not really.”

Bucky leads them through the base, checking doors as they go. He’s taken down 42 people tonight, a perfectly reasonable amount to run a base this size. No one had time to sound the alarm, the probability of people escaping is low.

When they reach first exit, Bucky wastes no time in wrenching the lock permanently shut. Max is silent after this display of strength. He closes the third exit behind them, and they make their way up the stairs.

Soon enough, the sound of the packing facility comes down to them. Bucky’s not too worried someone is looking for Max. They would have learned not to question what goes on and who comes out of the basement by now.

Bucky leads them out the back and to an alley a few streets over. Max is shivering in the brisk winter air, and Bucky’s fairing just a little better. There are no security cameras on the whole block, and it’s secluded enough. He opens a dumpster.

“What are you doing?” Max hisses at him. Bucky huffs and digs through the trash. “That’s disgusting.”

He pulls out a trash bag and shakes out the duffel bag inside.

“Oh, not as disgusting.”

He starts pulling out clothes for the both of them. Bucky gives Max the coat, and puts on a button down shirt with a sweater on top.

They put them on as fast as possible, and fuck, he’s never going on a mission without a fresh set of clothes for after. Never again. Just the shirt alone is so much better. Max clearly feels the same as his shivers subside as he settles into a coat.

He stuffs their bloody, ripped clothes into the dumpster, only keeping his boots on. 

"You really thought ahead.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know what to expect. How are your ribs?”

“My ribs?” Max furrows his brows. “How did you know?”

“You kept touching them,” Bucky says. He can guess his next question easily enough. “I would have asked anyways, Steve used to cough so hard his ribs would break and he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yeah, they’re a little sore. I got kicked a few times.” He’s playing it down for Bucky’s benefit.

Damn stubborn assholes who hide their injuries. He pulls out a pill bottle from the side pocket and gives Max a little, white pill. From another pocket, he pulls out a water bottle and a protein bar. “Eat some of that first, then take the pill. It’s a pain reliever.”

“Thanks,” Max says, tearing into the protein bar. “Holy shit. This is the best rescue ever.”

“It’s not over, yet.” He pours some of the nutrient powder into his water.

Max watches. “Is that the shakes they’d give you?”

“Sure is,” Bucky says. He gulps half of it down in one go. “It tastes like sawdust, want to try some?”

“What’s in it?” Max asks, holding out his hand. He gladly passes it over.

"I don’t know, vitamins, electrolytes? Protein powder but worse?”

“When you put it like that,” he says drily. He takes a sip and his face goes sour. His eyes close and his lips curl, but still, he gives Bucky a thumbs up and swallows it. Max scrambles for his water, handing it back to him. 

He drinks the rest of it as fast as he can. When he’s done, he downs another bottle of water. “Good, right?”

“That’s awful,” Max says. He shivers at the thought of the taste. “Do you need it? Why do you still have it?”

Bucky repacks most of his weapon into the duffel bag, and gets a pair of fake glasses. He cuffs his jeans and puts on a ring and a slightly dazed look.

“That’s all it takes?” Max stares at him. “You look like some preppy youth pastor who goes to school in Connecticut.”

Well he's not entirely sure what that means, but the goal was to look like a nondescript stereotype so people wouldn’t focus too hard on him. “Um, thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

They put their trash back into the duffel bag, and start on their way. Bucky had bought a nondescript, beat up Honda some weeks back, just in case, and had moved it a few blocks up the other day.

They walk in silence, both of them too tense to carry a conversation. They spot it, and it’s all Bucky can do to keep his steady pace. He throws the duffle bag in the back seat, and starts the car. 

“Do you even know how to drive?”

He pulls out into the street and retorts, “It’s the same rules as Nazi occupied France, right?”

Max hastily puts on his seat belt.

By the time the Avengers get there, the two of them are long gone.

Their route is complicated. Not that it’s a very hard drive from Jersey to Brooklyn, but he takes the most direct route to different places. Driving in circles is the best way to make it apparent they’re trying to lose someone. So he gets off at one exit, drives until he finds a hospital, then drives to a different point along the highway.

It takes a long time. 

He makes them switch cars twice, leaving cash and taking out anything sentimental in place of peoples’ shitty cars. Hopefully, they won’t be angry enough to file it as missing for a few days.

At last, they’re close enough to the subway to take it back to Brooklyn. Max hesitantly agrees to come back to his place. Even if he’s wildly uncomfortable being around him, he knows it’s the safest thing.

It’s been a week since he’s been home by the time they’re walking up the steps. It’s still early enough that no one is up, yet. They trudge up the stairs to Bucky’s apartment. Bucky sits down heavily on the couch. “You can shower if you want,” he offers.

“Thanks,” he says.

Bucky stops the timer for the email to JARVIS. He finds some new clothes for Max—they’re way too large, but at least there’s a drawstring on the pants and a towel and sets it outside the bathroom. 

When Max comes out, he goes through the motions of showering, too exhausted to truly care. It’s fast, at least.

Max is already sleeping on the couch, and Bucky thinks that’s a fantastic idea.


	15. Choice

Bucky wants a day of peace. Just one. But no, after sleeping off their exhaustion and occasionally snacking, they woke up the next morning hungry. Bucky made pancakes and eggs for breakfast, Max just has to ask, “So, what ever happened to that red book?” 

For just one second, he wants to ignore the question. He wants to ignore whatever awful thing he's going to have to deal with, and he wants a fucking nap. He braces himself. “What red book?”

Max’ eyes widen. “You don’t know about the red book?”

“I don’t know much of anything. You know the part where I was electrocuted into forgetting my past before each mission, right?”

“Yeah, but your handler had to read out of the red book, too.”

That can’t be good. “Max. What does the red book do?”

“It’s only mentioned a few times, but it was Russia’s version of the manual. They were supposed to read some specific words and it would make you more compliant with orders.”

Bucky’s blood runs cold, and his fork bends in his hand. “Soviets?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve never been good with when it’s Russia and when—”

“Max. I haven’t done anything with the red book.”

"That’s alright, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“You don’t understand.” Bucky tries very hard to keep his voice calm. “Someone still has it. Someone still has those words.”

Max’s hand flies to his mouth. 

This whole charade was foolish. The thought that he could live here safely. That it was temporary. That because being here was helping him, he could justify being here. 

Every second he has ever spent here has put each and every person at risk. Lucas. Charlie. Ellie. Victoria. David. Theo. Max. Even Liv, the barista. Molly, the used computer salesperson. Elijah from DC. Everyone he has ever passed on the street.

Every single person he has interacted with is at risk.

Bucky takes a moment. How could he be so utterly foolish? This was delusion at its finest. 

He bends the fork back into something resembling its original shape and takes a deep breath. The fork lands on the table with a soft clink. “Alright.”

Max stares at him, like he’s worried he’ll spontaneously combust. Bucky can’t even deny it. He might, who knows. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him today.

"I need to know everything you know about the red book.”

"Well, um, as I said, it was only mentioned a few times. There were a few messages between whoever had you in the ‘90s or something that was confused about how the Russians could control you so effectively.”

“Did it say Russians or Soviets?” Bucky asks.

“Soviets,” Max says after a moment. “I’m sure.”

“So the Soviet Union was still around or had just fallen.” Bucky gets his notebooks from the fridge, and flips through it. He’d managed to put together a rough timeline of where he could have been, or what he could have one. He verifies the dates. “I was transferred to the US a year after the USSR fell.”

“When did it fall?”

“December 26, 1991.”

Max’s voice is so gentle as he corrects him about his own past. “You were transferred in February.”

Bucky takes another steadying breath, and makes a note of it. He doesn’t think about how someone who researched his files for all of 6 months knows more than he does. He doesn’t.

“The Soviets sent me to kill all of my handlers,” Bucky says. “But I never found anything about killing a man named Karpov. Did you?”

“Who was he?” Max asks. 

“My last handler from the USSR. If the Americans didn’t know how to control me, they probably didn’t have the book. So if they didn’t have the book, the Soviets didn’t give it to them.”

“Karpov still has it.”

“So where is he?”

“I remember the Americans ordered you to kill several top level Hydra members from Russia,” Max says. “I was confused about it before, but maybe they were looking for the book. Or testing if you could be controlled.”

“Pierce didn’t have it at the last base. I tore that place apart and didn’t find any red book.”

“So maybe they never succeeded in finding it.

“So if I find Karpov, I find the book,” Bucky says.

"I?” Max raises his eyebrows, insulted. “I want to help.”

“No, there’s no way you’re coming. Karpov is too good to mess up on,” Bucky says. 

“Well you can’t go, either. He has the book. If you come after him, he’ll just say the words and you have to stop fighting,” Max says.

He hates this. Goddamn it, he wanted to do this on his own terms. Not Hydras. For once, he wanted something that wasn’t controlled by Hydra. “I’ll need help, won’t I?”

Max’s posture goes straighter and Bucky shuts it down. 

“You still can’t come. This is too dangerous,” Bucky says.

Max slumps a little in defeat. 

"But thank you, really.”

He gathers himself together. “So who can help?”

* * *

The response was immediate. JARVIS sent, “Dear Informant, I am pleased you contacted me. I will send a team immediately to a location of your choosing.”

Bucky responded with the coffee shop’s address in two hours. It’s a Thursday morning, and all the students are still in school. It won’t be busy today, and he knows it.

Of course, Steve would jump on the possibility it could be Bucky, which meant Sam was also going.

Bucky doesn’t know what to do with himself. What if he looks for the old Bucky? What if Bucky looks for the old Steve? They’ve been through so much since they saw each other...what if they don’t get along now?

He focuses on the excitement. He is glad.

Really, he is. But Steve has never been late in his goddamn life, especially not for something like this. So he’ll want to come immediately, and hopefully Sam is rational enough to talk him down to one hour early.

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, you’re better off here. We don’t know what Hydra knows,” Bucky says. “I downloaded Netflix but I don’t know why people like it so much. You can watch whatever you want.”

Max grins. “You want me to Netflix and chill?”

Bucky blinks. He’s not even sure what that means. “Sure, go for it. I’ll meet them there and take them back here after I explain everything, ok?”

“You’re bringing the Avengers back here?”

“Not all of them,” Bucky says. “Probably just Steve and Sam.”

“Holy shit,” Max whispers. “You’re on a first basis?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I was on a first name basis with Steve’s _mother_. I can call him Steve.”

“Wow.” Max rests his chin on his hand. “I used to read about you guys in history textbooks and stuff. This is fucking weird.”

"It’s about to get weirder,” Bucky says. “I’m going to have to tell my neighbors.”

* * *

Even though Bucky’s an hour and a half early, Steve and Sam walk in the door ten minutes after him. They look around, trying to be subtle about it. Sam is the first one to see him at the corner table, and nudges Steve.

Steve’s smile is blinding. No, that’s not right. His smile has always been the brightest thing in the room, but he’s forgotten. This is like the sun peaking out and brightening the whole world after days of rain. 

Bucky can tell he’s holding himself back. He’s making himself walk slowly. He’s waiting for Bucky to decide what to do.

He stands up and pulls Steve into a bone crushing hug. Or maybe Steve pulls him into one. Either way, they lean into each other and hold each other for several seconds. 

He’s the first to pull away. An itch under his skin tells him this is a vulnerable position, and nothing he says back stops it. Steve’s light fades just the tiniest amount, but is soon back full force when Bucky turns to Sam.

Bucky smiles at him. “Sam Wilson.”

Sam shakes his head. “You can just say hi, you know. You don't need my full name.” He telegraphs his movements as he puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder in greeting.

They make small talk and it’s...awkward, to say the least. It’s strange being around someone where you’re not quite sure who they are any more. But he wants to know. He wants to find whatever they had before.

But they can’t talk about how weird the new styles are, or how good it is to see each other. Not forever.

“Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to see you. But I need your help.”

Steve is already nodding, probably even planning the whole mission in his head. “What is it?”

“You’ve gone through the files, right?”

Steve hesitates, as if deciding how much of a creep he wants to admit to being. Yeah right, like Bucky would believe he chose respecting his privacy over figuring out how much danger Bucky is in.

Sam has no such reservations. “Too many times, why?”

Bucky looks around, but there is no one within earshot, and has been paranoid about Hydra since he first came here. This place is as safe as any. 

"There’s a man I need to find, he has something important.” 

"What do you know about him?” 

"Not much,” he says. “He was around 5’9 to 6’1 and 180-200 pounds when I knew him in the ‘80s. Strong. But he was never as talkative as everyone else was so I don’t know anything else about him.” 

“You have a name?” Steve asks. “Our friend could probably track him down within a few hours. 

“Vasily Karpov,” he says. 

Sam thinks for a long moment. “What do you need us for? You can track Hydra down, you’ve been doing it for weeks.”

Steve sends him a glare. 

“That’s not going to scare me off.” He meets Sam’s eyes. He doesn’t think he can handle Steve’s reaction—he can barely handle his own. “He has a book the Soviets used to control me. It has everything someone needs to know to control me.”

Sam’s face softens around the eyes. He’s still engaged in this very serious conversation, but he’s sympathetic. 

“I can find him in a day or two, but I can’t go after him myself.” He looks between them. “Will you help me?”

Steve _melts_ like Bucky’s writing poetry for him. “Always.”

The part of Bucky he hadn't been able to control breathes a sigh of relief. Someone can help him fix this. Someone understands how important this is. And more than someone, it’s Steve. 

“Yeah, we’ll help,” Sam says. He pulls out his phone and texts someone. It buzzes back immediately, and he smiles. “A friend of ours is on it. She’ll have what we need by tomorrow. Do you have a place you’re staying at or would you like to come to the Tower?”

“I have a place,” Bucky says. “My neighbors don’t know anything, yet.”

“What are you going to tell them?” Sam asks. “We’re not exactly subtle.”

“Everything.” Bucky thinks it over for a second. Max’s ashen face and horror filled eyes that he’s learning to cover up with pity. The fear when he found out the Winter Soldier wasn’t quite human. The way Steve and Sam are searching for signs he’s okay even now. “Well, not everything. But they should know the truth.”

* * *

Some time since the '40s, Steve learned how to disguise himself. Bucky would personally like to thank whoever is responsible. He was always glad Steve was never too involved on the missions that needed him to be undercover ** _—_** it's like trying to hide a massive puppy.

Steve slumps his shoulders a little as he’s walking and adds a bounce to his step. Or maybe, that last part wasn’t intentional. Now, he looks like a very excitable gym rat rather than the definition of patriot. Sam, on the other hand, is fine with a hat and his coat pulled up high. 

“How come you two aren’t freezing?” He wraps himself tighter in his coat. Steve starts to explain and he waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Fast metabolism, cells in a protective cycle, whatever. It’s still unfair.”

Bucky chuckles. “We’re almost there.”

Steve looks around and stops. “You’ve been here this whole time?”

He’s not saying everything. Not saying how his heart is shattering that Bucky never reached out to him until now. He’s trying not to be angry. 

“I wandered around DC for a few weeks, then came here and did the same thing,” Bucky says. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Steve’s words are deliberately calm. “You could have come with us.”

He really didn’t want to have this conversation in the middle of the street. Didn’t want to have it at all, really. “Project Insight was their replacement for me. They were going to use me as their own personal helicarrier. I had a day’s worth of memories, and I understood that. I couldn’t risk anything.”

“What did you do?” Sam asks. 

Bucky shrugs. “Wandered around, mostly. Found out a little about myself, found my way here. Wandered around some more. Until I found a scrappy kid in an alley fight,” he smiles at Steve, “And it seemed right to pull him out of it. Just like the first time we met.”

Steve gives that blinding smile and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Did I ever tell you that story?”

It’s not right. It probably won’t be for some time, yet. But it can get there, and that’s more valuable than anything.

They reach the apartment building, and Bucky unlocks the door.

Ellie looks up from her chair as he comes in, and waits. It's only now he realizes just how scary she could be as a teacher.

"Hey, Ellie.”

"Oh, how nice of you to say hello,” she says. “We were worried about you.”

"I’m sorry, I’ll explain everything at dinner, tonight,” Bucky says.

Steve and Sam file in after him, and she raises her eyebrows. Make no mistake, she knows exactly who they are and doesn’t care one bit. “I think you’d better.”

“Is it alright that they come?”

Ellie’s eyes sparkle with mischief. He hasn’t been forgiven, but she knows how the others will react. “Whoever helps can come. I take it they have to do with your...explanation?”

“They know the story better than me, ma’am,” Bucky says.

Ellie purses her lips, but accepts it. Her mind is already running a thousand miles per minute. She’ll have most of it figured out by the time dinner comes around.

Bucky leads them up the stairs and into his apartment. He blinks several times at the fiasco Max stands in the middle of. He can’t even begin to guess what’s going on. “What the hell happened to Netflix and chill?”

Sam snorts. “What?”

Bucky is going to have to look that up later. He waves Sam off and turns to Max. 

Every single item in Bucky’s cabinets is on the counter. Max presides over the mess, and he appears to be...He’s not sure what he’s doing.

“You’re back!” Max says, shocked. 

“I told you, he’d be early. Why are you going through my kitchen?” Bucky asks.

“Well, you see,” he starts. He looks between Bucky, Steve, and Sam. “I stress clean, and this week has been stressful, and there’s only so many cooking shows you can watch before you start to get stressed too, and so I thought I’d get a snack, only half of your stuff is old.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “That’s nice of you. How about I finish this?”

“You’re just going to throw it all back in, aren’t you?” Max asks.

Alright, so some things might be old. But there’s always a use for it. Stale crackers aren’t that bad, and he hasn’t been _too_ bad about cleaning out his fridge. “This is not a pressing issue.”

He starts shoving things wherever they’ll fit. Maybe when the most stressful thing about his day is the state of his cabinets, he can go through them. “Steve, Sam, this is my friend, Max. He’s a journalist doing his senior thesis on Hydra and the Winter Soldier project.”

Max waves, and doesn’t look at either of them directly. “Yeah, I got kidnapped over it.”

Steve pulls out a chair. “I think you two had better start from the beginning.”

* * *

Bucky waited until the excitement over having two actual Avengers and a historical figure in Ellie’s apartment had died down before beginning. Sam was always the more relatable one, so he’d helped bring things back to normal by mercilessly making fun of them. Of course, Max couldn’t help but join in using oddly specific pop culture references that sent the rest of them roaring with laughter.

Theo just looked as if the world suddenly made sense. 

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look of mutual confusion, which was somehow amusing on its own. 

And Steve was Steve, and after politely kicking Ellie out of her own kitchen, the others had warmed up to him. Then, the questions came. 

David turns to Bucky. “So we all remember him coming out of the ice—”

Lucas whispers to Charlie, “Hard to forget, with the aliens and all.”

“—But how did you survive?”

Ah, now came the depressing part. Even though he wouldn’t talk about the worst bits, there was no way to sugar coat it. “When I was first captured in Italy, a scientist named Zola gave me a version of Steve’s serum. It worked more slowly than his, but by the time I fell off the train in the Alps, it was strong enough that I survived.”

The room sits in a solemn silence.

Bucky continues. He says it clinically, as if he’s reading from what a fully accurate Smithsonian would say. “Hydra recaptured me and finished...conditioning me into their assassin.”

“What do you mean?” Lucas asks. His mouth is already frowning in sympathy; he knows he doesn’t truly want to hear this. 

“They removed my memories so that they could reshape my morals into what would serve them best. My loyalty, my patience, my will to protect was all manipulated so I would accept their orders,” Bucky says. He fiddles with his water glass. “And I did for 70 years, completing missions for whoever ordered them.”

No one speaks, then Charlie’s soft voice says, “That’s awful.”

It’s so woefully inadequate that Bucky has to laugh. It’s the laugh of someone on a sinking ship who notices a faucet is leaking. “Yeah, it wasn’t fun. I’ll give the groupon a bad review.”

Victoria takes the hint and smiles at him. She mercifully changes the subject. “So, what now?”

“Well, as soon as their friend finds who we’re looking for, we’ll need to take care of that. Then...I’m not sure. It depends.” 

“On?” David asks. 

“If Hydra finds out. I can’t imagine they’ll be happy. They’ll retaliate somehow.” Bucky looks around. He’s ruining this. They don’t know what the future will hold, and nothing can be done about that tonight. He chuckles. “But anyways, whenever it’s safe, I’ll be back.”

Theo reaches over and claps him on the back. “I’m glad to hear it.”

* * *

“I’m just confused about one thing. Why Ohio?” Sam asks. He’s driving as perfectly average as possible while still being effective. The one thing they have going for them is that nobody knows where Bucky went after attacking the Hydra base.

The Avengers will keep quiet about the warehouse, and Tony Stark even offered to let Max stay at the Tower. More ecstatic for the chance at meeting more Avengers than the wonders it does for his safety, he accepted.

And Natasha Romanoff is keeping an eye on the neighbors while they’re gone. She’d made some snarky remarks on the phone about even redecorating if his style was anything like Steves.

Bucky was proud to inform her it was worse, actually. 

Sam had offered to drive, since he was the only one with an official, non-forged driver's license.

“I don’t know, we’ll have to be sure to ask him,” Bucky says. He has a map book in his lap, refusing to turn on the GPS of Sam’s phone. “Exit right in 6 miles and turn left.”

Steve rolls his neck from the backseat. “Finally, I thought we’d be on this highway forever.”

“Steve,” Bucky says solemnly. “We’re just getting on a different highway. We’re not even in the right state, yet.”

Steve curses and slumps back into his seat. “How did we do this in the war?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Fucking poker or something.”

That cheers him right up. “You remember that?”

Bucky snorts “You must have won everyone’s rations twice over or something.” He turns to Sam. “Don’t ever play him.”

Sam shakes his head with a smile. “No, see, you guys might be good, but that’s nothing compared to Riley.”

“Really?” Bucky asks. It’s an invitation that he could easily turn down. The sheer amount of both fondness and regret in his voice tells him enough.

“Yeah.” Sam keeps his eyes firmly on the road. “You know I was a pararescue? He was my wingman, and he fell.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. He looks at Steve in the backseat and thinks about it for a minute.

Sam will probably never admit if he’s jealous, but Steve got him back. The way he did it was hell, but at the end of the day...they have another chance.

“Thanks.” Sam spares him a glance and seems to realize what he’s thinking. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”

Bucky checks his map again. “Turn left at the light. Is that so?”

He gets ready for the questions they’ve been dying to have answered. Is he OK? How is he dealing with everything? Is he just pretending? 

“No, you’re handling this a lot better than I could have,” Sam says. He catches Bucky’s confused look. “Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.”

Bucky laughs a little. “You think I’m handling this all well?”

Steve nudges the back of his seat. Or maybe he’s just too tall for back there. Well too bad, he’s the most recognizable out of all of them. “He’s right. You are.”

He really doesn't know what to do with that. He’s a mess, and he probably will be for years. He barely remembers where he is in the mornings, most days, and only has a year's worth of memories by duration.

“Really?” He doesn’t believe it.

Steve laughs, but it’s kind. “Yeah, you’ve always been the strongest person I know.”

Bucky, at last, meets his gaze. “So are you.”

There’s a moment that passes between them. It’s like a mirror shattering. He can see each version of themselves in it, every version of how they’ve always existed together.

“Come on, don’t do this to me,” Sam grumbles. “You couldn’t wait until there was space to have your lovey-dovey moment?”

Bucky grins. “Would you like a lovey-dovey moment, Sam? I think you’re pretty strong, too.”

Sam shakes his head, laughing. “Man, shut the hell up and tell me how to get to fucking Ohio.”


	16. Home

Bucky is forbidden from surveillance on Karpov. And he understands **_—_ **hell, he even suggested it, but it doesn’t make it any less boring. A day passes of Steve and Sam monitoring Karpov in irregular shifts, and he’s taken up pacing as his hobby. Maybe one day, it’ll get interesting.

“How could you do this all the time if you get bored easily?” Sam asks from where he’s unsuccessfully trying to sleep. He’s on his stomach and one eye follows Bucky as he walks across their motel room again. That’s 98 times since he arrived.

“Probably the brainwashing,” Bucky says offhandedly. 

Sam huffs. “I’m sure that helps.”

He keeps pacing.

Sam turns his head the other way on the pillow. “Please tell me you were this annoying for Steve.”

Actually, no. For the first peaceful time they spent alone in decades, they both pretended to sleep. “Of course.”

“Liar,” Sam mumbles. 

A few more minutes pass before he’s had enough. He turns over, glares at Bucky for a moment, and then tosses him the remote from the bedside table. “Put something on. I don’t care what, but you’ll wear us both out at that rate.”

He begrudgingly agrees, and sits against the headboard on the other bed. He flips through the channels until he finds a baking show in French. His brain will process it as background noise because it can’t understand, and Bucky learns how to make sucre a la creme.

Sam looks over at him, confused, but soon falls asleep.

Steve comes in later, taking off his winter coat and scarf. He shakes his head at Bucky’s silent question and sets down a bag of takeout for later. 

Steve sits on the end of the bed to take his shoes off. “Karpov is one secluded man.”

“If he’s been monitoring the same comms networks I was, he knows I’m unaccounted for.” He is smart if he’s scared.

He grabs a shirt out of his bag and some pajama pants. “You’re worried he’ll try to find you?”

“Smart, isn’t it? Offense instead of defense?”

Steve changes, and Bucky does not look away. When he pulls his shirt over his head, he meets his gaze and blushes. Steve clears his throat. “I suppose, but he doesn’t know we know where he is. Nat said he covered his tracks well.”

Bucky nods.

Steve sits next to Bucky on the bed, which is definitely not large enough for two super soldiers. Their thighs brush together, and they both face the tv as if they’re invested in the puff pastry recipe. “He could be staying inside as a precaution, but with no real expectation behind it.”

“True,” Bucky says. “It could be a trap.”

“His only advantage is the book, which is useless on us.”

“No,” He shakes his head. “If you two go in first, he’ll drag out the fight by telling you what I’ve done. You can’t let that happen.”

“I know what you were made to do,” Steve says.

Bucky meets his eyes. “You can’t convince me it doesn’t bother you. He’ll try to use it against you.”

“I’m fine with--”

“Steve,” Bucky says. “I know you hate those files.”

“I hate what they did to you,” He corrects. There’s something more he isn’t saying. 

Bucky can guess. “I’m not exactly thrilled with it, either. But you can’t take that on as your fault. It’s not.”

Steve is ready to deny it the moment it leaves his mouth. 

Bucky cuts off that rant before it can begin. “I don’t blame you.”

Steve lets his head fall back against the headboard. “I should have caught you in time…”

“Zola would have found another way,” Bucky says. It had been a sickening fact to accept. But the more he’d replayed the few memories of it in his mind, he realized Zola had been too prepared for them. Sent a target that was too easy for Bucky and too overpowered for Steve. While the Hydra scientists were trying to break him and brainwash him, he’d been too gleeful about it.

They’re silent for a long time, listening to Sam’s breathing and the baking show. Neither of them truly want to accept it. That even if they’d done one thing right, the end result would be here.

“Zola’s dead,” Steve announces to the quiet room.

“How?”

“Uploaded his mind onto a supercomputer, and tried to kill Natasha and I by launching a missile at us back in the spring.”

Bucky blinks, and turns to Steve. “Wait, what?” Every time he thinks he understands this world...he's so fucking wrong. What the fuck?

Steve explains the secret base, the algorithm, the missile strike. 

“Huh. So he didn’t get to see the helicarriers come down, and never knew I was already breaking his conditioning.”

“And the tesseract was on another planet, by then. His entire life’s work, all gone within a day he died.” Steve doesn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice.

He smiles. It has the cruelty of a torturer’s smile, and it’s the side of him that he never wanted Steve to see. “Good.”

They lapse back into silence.

“You ever think back to all that’s happened to us,” Bucky starts. “And just think what a terrible book we would have called it?”

Steve smiles. “You’d say it was too unrealistic.”

“Not even any aliens or dragons to draw.”

“No, there were aliens,” Steve corrects. “They were all grey with glowing blue weapons, though.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about those.” Bucky snickers enough to make Sam snort awake. “So they weren’t even _cool_ aliens?”

“Nope,” Steve says, trying to hide his smile. “Worst aliens ever.”

Bucky relaxes, finally. It’s a strange thing, what laughter and knowing people he trusts are with him will do to a person. It’s nice.

“How much do you remember about what we were to each other?” Steve asks. 

He knows mostly vague feelings, with some specific memories thrown in for good measure. And the past few days...he doesn’t regret seeing Steve. Not one bit. “I loved you.” He meets Steve’s eyes. “I still do.”

The small amount of hope that glimmers in Steve’s eyes explodes. “I do, too.”

Bucky looks at Sam, and back to Steve. Maybe not in the same city as his old handler, but “How much do you think Sam would kill us if we went on a date right now?”

“A lot,” Steve says. “But I’m glad it’s something you want. After...all this?”

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “After all this.”

Steve’s hands twitch. “Can I just hold you tonight?’

They have to curl up in weird shapes so they can both fit on the bed, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe that’s just Steve. As he falls asleep, he hears Sam turn over and mutter, “Finally.”

* * *

Bucky waits at the coffee shop down the street within view of Karpov’s door. It’s a shabby little place, between equally shabbier places. But the coffee isn’t half bad, and the barista gave him extra whipped cream. That was nice of him, but these were just a prop, and go untouched on the table. He doubts it would stay down, anyways.

Sam knocks on the door with the excuse that his battery dies, and his car needs a jump.

He makes some excuses from inside, but eventually, Karpov opens the door. He’s smart enough to keep the chain locked. In his thick Russian accent that never truly faded, he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any cables.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got them,” Sam says, faking helpfulness. “Sylvia next door isn’t home, and you’re the only one around.”

Karpov shuts the door, undoes the lock, and opens it all the way. He shoves his hands into his pockets, no doubt concealing a weapon. 

But he doesn’t expect Steve to come around the corner and push the three of them inside. The door shuts with a grim finality. 

Bucky waits. 

And listens.

Every second is an eternity in which the entire fight can flip. He doesn’t know if it’s good or bad that they’re not making a sound.

As the clock reaches 10 minutes, he debates going closer. It’s a horrible idea. Yet every time someone so much as makes a noise, he tenses. 

It’s a long wait.

At last, Sam opens the door and gives the correct signal. They’d discussed many, just in case. Bucky gets up, bringing his three coffees with him. 

They’d never managed to quite break the part of him that was human. Splinter? Definitely. Cover it up? Yes.

But there were always parts that slipped through. His actions, his expression, his treatment, was all so mechanized that his handlers believed he was a machine. They could not fathom how there was anything intact within him.

So when he did a simple thing like speak, or smile, or disobey, or remember the smallest details, fear clenched around their hearts. They mentally ran through a checklist of every time they’d been around him to see if they’d given any incriminating information.

And the thing was, they could never remember. 

The most terrifying part about machines is how human they are, but the most terrifying part of humans is how mechanical they can become.

Bucky strolls into Karpov’s apartment and shuts the door behind him. He hands off the coffees. “Sorry, Steve, they didn’t have almond milk.” He takes off his gloves, throwing them carelessly on the table.

Steve takes his drink and passes the other to Sam. He sits back in his chair, fury boiling within him. 

They’ve tied Karpov up at his kitchen table, and Karpov glares at him, but can’t say anything through his gag.

Bucky pulls out a chair and lounges in it. “You’re not happy to see me?”

Karpov doesn’t try to answer. 

“Alright, no small talk then,” Bucky says. He sets down his drink and pulls his chair closer. “I’ve got a question for you, and you’re going to answer it.”

He raises his eyebrows, trying to appear unimpressed. But just underneath the surface, he knows what Bucky wants and he’s afraid of him.

“You have a red book with some words I am interested in. You’re going to tell me where it is,” Bucky says. He leaves no room for uncertainty, but knows he’ll be difficult. Good. “Can you do that for me?”

Karpov shakes his head, and would probably flip him off if given the opportunity.

“Unfortunate,” Bucky says blandly. He doesn't bother looking around for any family photos as leverage. He would not be so foolish as to leave them lying around, even if he has a family.

“You remember what you taught me to do,” Bucky says lowly. “You remember how talented I am. You know I killed before I was captured, and you know I was damn good at it. So how long do you think I’d hesitate to kill you, and make your life miserable before I do?”

There is only hatred in his eyes.

“Where is the red book?”

Karpov doesn’t answer, but Bucky doesn't need him to. He has looked everywhere but one corner of the room. 

Now if Bucky were hiding it...he knocks along the wall until he hears a spot that is especially hollow. With his metal fist, he knocks a hole into the wall.

Sure enough, a couple of inches to its left is an old, cardboard box. He takes it out and dumps its contents onto the table. There it is. 

There is no shred of evidence of a patch job, so the box was put in there while the house was constructed. The house was constructed in 1996. The perfect gap where Karpov covered his tracks between leaving Hydra and coming here.

A simple, red book with a star on the cover. He hands it off to Steve, who doesn’t so much as open it. Sam starts picking through the remaining items.

Bucky turns back to Karpov. “Now was that so hard?”

Now that he no longer has a use, fear begins to set in. He knows he’s lost. 

Good. “Tell me, does anyone else know the words inside?”

He meets Bucky’s gaze and shakes his head once.

It’s the truth, even if he doesn’t know why he’d admit it. He decides it doesn't matter. Bucky pulls out a pistol and holds it against his temple. He imagined he’d have a glorious last thing to say, or that he’d somehow know the most satisfying way to do this. But he doesn't, and maybe that doesn’t matter either.

Bucky fires a single shot.

* * *

Karpov’s death isn’t discovered for a month. They had given him the grace of burying the body, which was more than he deserved. But they hadn’t wanted to give away their hand until they were long gone.

See, those who are not facing trials by multiple governments have buried all associations to Hydra, or at least got better at covering it up. There are still active cells scattered across the world, weakened as they are, and Bucky suspects there will be for years to come.

But once the news of Karpov’s death makes its rounds, Hydra panics. It’s difficult not to, when the elephant in the Hydra communication networks remains that nobody knows where their prized assassin is.

Bucky should have prepared for it better.

A new headline makes breaking news worldwide: “Enhanced Hydra Assassin Still At Large.”

Bucky removes every trace of himself from the apartment building the same day. He and Steve go on the run. He erases any and all video surveillance of his activities the past few months. Creates more and more false trails of his activities.

Outrage spurs investigations which spur calls for justice.

The world calls for his blood.

“Steve,” Bucky says one night. They’re in one of Natasha’s bases in Montana, which is more like a campsite than anything. Granted, it’s the nicest campsite Bucky’s ever been to, but most of his camping experience comes from World War Two. “I’m going to have to turn myself in.”

Steve doesn't say anything at first, he just comes up and holds Bucky. “I know.”

“I’m not happy with it, either,” Bucky says. “But we can still control the story.”

Steve nods, his growing beard scratching Bucky’s face. “If we do it now.”

Bucky doesn't say anything. They both know what a risk this is. The world wants a single scapegoat to blame instead of all of Hydra to track down.

But they can still turn people on their side. James Buchanan Barnes is a war hero, held up as an embodiment of friendship, devotion, and sacrifice. They can use that. If he turns himself in publicly, Hydra cannot work from the shadows.

“We can call Natasha tomorrow,” Bucky says. “Keep tonight for ourselves.”

Despite what will come tomorrow, a slow smile spreads across Steve’s face. It fuels the very stars above them. 

Their kiss is desperate, understanding of the ticking clock they’re on better than either of them. Ticking clocks are old friends--the inevitability of sickness, of war, of discovery. They are no strangers to it.

And yet, it’s slow. They kiss like they have all the time in the world, when they know it’s a lie. 

Tonight is their only certainty.


	17. On Corruption and Humanity: A War Hero's Return Home

On Corruption and Humanity: A War Hero’s Return Home

Max O’Sullivan

The world is coming to understand the true extent of Hydra’s influence on recent history. Perhaps the most terrifying is the recent discovery of the Winter Soldier Project, which trained an enhanced assassin for covert operations across the world. As the world searches for answers, they are unprepared for the truth:

The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes, famous member of the Howling Commandos who was believed to be killed in action until recently.

As the world’s governments debate who has jurisdiction over this case, and it looks like the International Criminal Court (ICC) might step in, I sat down with Barnes to better understand his side of the story.

While his location is confidential, it is far from how I would imagine an assassin living. Old photos from various textbooks and museums, new photos of friends, and colorful sketches decorate the alls of his apartment-style prison cell. I cannot help but point out how he has a small bookshelf crammed with science fiction novels, despite practically being one himself.

Barnes laughs easily and pours coffee for them both. From our previous conversations, I know it is a testament to how far he has come. “I know, it’s strange, but I’ve always loved them. I’d forgotten ll about it until I read my sister’s series.”

The _Ruth Arnold Chronicles,_ written by Maribelle Barnes, is a classic in most high schools and book clubs. “I remember reading those books in high school.”

A satisfied smile spreads across his face. “They’re so good, aren’t they? She’s always been such a great writer.”

His pride in her is evident, and he talks about discovering how his family moved on after his apparent death. “I’d already been to Bee’s memorial for the Howling Commandos, actually, when I found out who she was to me. That time, I only knew a handful of things about my past.”

That must have been a shock to see yourself as a statue.”

"No, see, I’m missing from the lineup of the other Howlies. It’s genius. There’s even a quote of her inviting others to literally step into my place and become someone who protects their friends.”

“Did you do it?”

“Not the first time I was there. I couldn’t. I only half remembered who I used to be, so it would have felt like I was imposing on who that was. I felt like I couldn’t exist with who I used to be.”

“And now?”

“I guess I’ve realized I haven’t lost who I used to be. I’m not sure if I ever did.”

“Even as the Winter Soldier?”

Barnes hesitates. “Even then. I think my sisters got that right about me—I wanted to protect my friends. Even Hydra couldn’t remove it, all they could do was manipulate it into protecting them.”

I spent months pouring over the leaked Hydra and Winter Soldier files before I even knew who Barnes was. Even though I only know parts of what he went through, there is no other way to describe it than torture. “Did you still know who you were in the beginning?”

Barnes looks away, thinking. “I wish I had an answer for you. But I don’t know.”

"Does it worry you?”

“Not knowing?” He considers it. “It terrifies me. I have scars I don’t remember getting that my serum should have healed—which means it was either a deep injury or repeated enough times to scar. And I’m going on trial...some of the crimes I’m accused of...I’m not sure if I did them.”

“I know your team plans on pleading innocent on account of insanity because you could not distinguish right from wrong,” I say. “How did you arrive at this decision?”

“It’s something we discovered back when I was trying to put together a timeline. Other people knew more about my past than I did.” Barnes’ smile is nowhere near as wide as it was before. “So we looked into reasons why.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, the...construction of who I was as the Winter Soldier relied on removing my sense of self. They made me believe I was nothing before Hydra and that I would be nothing without them. I never considered there was anything else.”

“By construction, you mean…?”

Barnes shrugs. “I thought it was nicer than saying torture.”

I nod, it’s certainly a nicer way than describing how they turned him into barely more than a machine. “You said you kept your values. How does that apply to your sense of right and wrong?”

“By the time I was sent out on my first mission, I didn’t know right and wrong existed. I only knew what I had to do and the consequences for not doing it.”

I can tell Barnes is not finished, so I wait. As silence settles over us, I consider how this should be terrifying. I should be quaking and stuttering through my words, not having a chat over a cup of coffee. He may be capable of extreme violence, but he does not want it. Barnes, not under the influence of Hydra, is a peaceful man.

“There were times when I disobeyed, and I think it was because of whatever I remembered.”

“You could remember things?”

“Sometimes. See, the process of scrambling memories isn’t a perfect science. I think my serum worked to try and correct the damage to my brain, and the process would have to be redone every few days. Otherwise I would start having flashes of memory. A name here, a face there, one time I think it was a song,” he says. “But sometimes it was just the right combination of flashes that would...override Hydra’s mission.”

“Do you remember any examples?”

“Yes,” Barnes said. “In 1972 and I was supposed to set explosives in a hospital and assassinate a politician. Only, I remembered just enough about Steve Rogers being sick that I recognized it as a children’s hospital and made up some excuse to get the patients evacuated from the wing.”

“Did Hydra find out?”

“They did.” Barnes does not elaborate. It is not hard to guess why.

“I believe that nurse stepped forwards a few weeks ago,” I say.

“Yes,” Barnes smiles. “They gave their report anonymously a week ago.”

“Did you get a chance to talk?”

“We did. I thanked them for leading the evacuation.”

“That must have been a weird conversation.”

“It was. We video called. It was strange to see how they aged while I haven’t.”

I can’t help but ask. “Can you age?”

Barnes considers it. “I’m not sure yet. Steve [Rogers] and I were given similar serums, but It wasn’t like Project Rebirth. Hydra didn’t exactly sit me down and go over the possible side effects first.”

“Arnim Zola gave it to you without your consent.”

“Yep. When my men and I were captured in Italy, he experimented on us, trying to get a version of the serum to work.”

I think back to those old interviews with the New York magazine at the height of the Vietnam War. Many wondered what the prisoners of war were going through. Some World War Two veterans gave various interviews, including the remaining Howling Commandos. Those that were captured by Hydra spoke on how they would take people for human experimentation. Those that went, never returned.

Barnes smiles wryly. “I doubt he expected it to work so well. I definitely didn’t. But when it did...I was his personal project.”

“Until Steve Rogers rescued you,” I say. 

“I didn’t know what happened. Sure, I noticed I’d changed, but it was a lot more slow-acting than Steve’s.” Barnes says. “When I woke up after falling in the Alps with a metal arm, I knew for certain.”

I can’t restrain my shock. “You just woke up with a metal arm?”

Barnes nods. “It’s messed up, isn’t it? I thought I was dead, and suddenly…” He holds up his left arm. “Here it is.”

“You’ve been through a lot. How are you dealing with it?”

“I went to group therapy meetings for a while. I think, depending on how this ends, I’d be interested in doing it again. But for now, I do see a therapist.” Barnes fiddles with his coffee mug. “I thought it would be more awkward than it is.”

“That’s a common experience,” I say. 

It makes Barnes relax. “I’m glad I can still have common experiences, after all this.”

I can only imagine how out of his depth Barnes feels in today’s world, especially with the onset of public outcry. “There have been cries for justice on all sides. What does that look like to you?”

Barnes considers it for a long time. “I’m not sure. I know that’s not the answer you’re looking for, but there is a lot to consider. I do want justice for the victim’s families, and I feel responsible for my part in their misery. But I want justice for myself.”

I have one final question. “What will the future be like?”

Barnes smiles.


End file.
